THE INTIMATE STRANGERS SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th St., New York Pollyanna The glad play, by Catherine Chlsholm Cuaning, after the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. 2 interior*. Costumes, modern. Plays 2*4 hours. An orphan girl is thrust Into the home of a maiden aunt. In spite of the trials that beset her, she manages to find something to be glad about, and brings light Into sunless lives. Finally Pollyanna straightens out the love affairs of her elders, and finds happiness for herself In Jimmy. "Pollyanna0 gives a better appreciation of people and the world. It reflects the humor and humanity that gave (he story such wonderful popularity among young and old. Produced In New York, and for two seasons on tour. lioyalty, 925.00. Price, 75 cents. Martha By-the-Day An optimistic comedy In 3 acts, by Julie M. Lilppmann. author of the "Martha" stories. 5 males, 5 female*. S Interiors. Cos- tumes, modern. Plays Zy2 hours. Full of quaint humor, old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the kind that people who see the play will recall and chuckle over tomorrow and the next day. Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her successful book for the stage and has selected from her novel the most telling incidents, Infections comedy and homely sentiment for ths play, and the result is thoroughly delightful, lioyalty, $85. Price, 60 cento. Seventeen A comedy of youth, In 4 acts, by Booth Tarkington. 8 male*. < females. 1 exterior, 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Play* »% hours. It is the tragedy of William Sylvanus Baxter that he ha* •eased to be sixteen and Is not yet eighteen. Seventeen Is not an age, it is a disease. In his heart William knows all the tortures and delights of love. But he is still sent by his mother on errands of the most humiliating sort and depends on his father for every nickel* the use of which he must Justify before he gets it. "Silly" BiU fell In love with Lola, the "Baby-Talk Lady," • vapid little flirt. To woo her in a manner worthy of himself (and of her) he steals his father's evening clothes. When hie wooingrs become a nuisance to the neighborhood, his mother •teals them back, and has them let out to fit the middle-aged form of her husband, thereby keeping William at home. But when it comes to the "Baby-Talk Lady's" good-bye dance, not to be present was unendurable. Now William agate (rets the dress suit, and how he wears it at the party, and Genesis discloses the fact that the proud garment is In reality his father's makes up the story of the play. "Seventeen" Is a work of exquisite human sympathy and delicious humor. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Bequest ' 0- [/'' THE INTIMATE STRANGERS A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS BY BOOTH TARKINGTON COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY BOOTH TARKINGTON * All Rights Reserved CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that "THE INTIMATE STRANGERS," be- ing fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, Great Britain and the Dominion of Canada, is subject to a royalty, and any one present- ing the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Applications for the amateur act- ing rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York. Applications for the profes- sional acting rights must be made to A. L. Erlanger, New Amsterdam Theatre Building, West 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. LONDON SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD. 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET STRAND 'The Intimate Strangers" All Rights Reserved Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading- public only, and no performance, representation, produc- tion, recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York. This play may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a royalty of Twenty-Five Dollars for each performance, payable to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, one week before the date when the play is given. Whenever the play is produced the following notice must appear on all programs, printing and advertising for the play: "Produced by special arrangement with Samuel French of New York" Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for any infringement of the author's rights, as follows: "SECTION 4966: — Any person publicly performing or rep- resenting any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be im- prisoned for a period not exceeding one year." — U. S. Revised Statutes: Title 60, Chap. 3. CHARACTERS (In the order of their appearance) THE STATION-MASTER WILLIAM AMES ISABEL STUART FLORENCE JOHNNIE WHITE HENRY AUNT ELLEN MATTIE Produced by Erlanger, Dillingham, and Ziegfeld at the New National Theatre, Washington, D. C, October 31, 1921, with the following cast: THE STATION-MASTER Charles Abbe AMES Alfred Lunt ISABEL Miss Burke FLORENCE Frances Howard JOHNNIE WHITE Glenn Hunter HENRY Frank J. Kirk AUNT ELLEN Elisabeth Patterson MATTIE . Clare Weldon SYNOPSIS OF SCENES ACT I. A railway station. A night in April. During Act I the curtain is lowered to denote a lapse of a few hours. ACT II. The living-room at ISABEL'S. The next morning. ACT III. The same. That evening. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS ACT I SCENE : The rise of the curtain discloses a darkness complete except for an oblong of faintly lumi- nous blue ; this is a large window; and one or two stars are seen through the upper panes. After a moment a door up right is opened and a man enters carrying a lantern. He pushes a switch button near the door and two bulbs, shaded by green painted tin, come to life, right center; two other bulbs, left center, take on similar life simultaneously. These lights hang by wires from the ceiling. The interior revealed is that of a small rail- way station, a "way station" at an obscure junc- tion in the country. The walls are wainscoted in wood to a height of four feet; above that is plaster painted a tan brown. In the right wall half way up is the ticket window, with a little shelf; the up-and-down sliding inner panel of the window closed. Up to this, in right wall, is a door. In the back wall up right is another door, that which has admitted the man with the lantern. Center in the rear wall is the window. There is a stove, left, with a pipe running to the left wall. The only decorations are some printed 7 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS posters giving notice of changes in train sched- ules, a Navy Recruiting poster, a "warning" con- cerning forest fires, a penny-in-the-slot "weighing machine against the rear wall, and "No Smok- ing." There is a clock on right wall; it has stopped at seventeen minutes after six. The furniture consists of four or five wooden benches with iron legs, the feet screwed to the floor; these benches are set in rigid rows, facing front; one straight behind the other. Upon the front one is seen a small lunch basket, closed but not strapped, and a very small thermos bottle. Sev- eral traveling bags, a couple of guns in cases and a trout-fishing outfit are there also. The man with the lantern is the station-master, ticket-agent, telegraph operator, baggage-man, and janitor; but he wears no uniform except a cap. He is elderly and smooth-shaven; his clothes are elderly, too; though not shabby. A dark old overcoat with the collar turned up; his rubber boots are heavy with mudded clay, and his trousers are tucked into the tops of them. He goes casually near the clock; looks at it; grunts thoughtfully; goes out right, returns with a plain, wooden-seated chair, once painted yel- low; places it under the clock. He moves the hands around to ten-twenty-four, consulting his watch as he does so. Then he winds the clock. As the winding begins, there is the sound of an annoyed yawn from the apparently empty benches. A man has been lying at full length on the bench second from front, and until now, as he slowly "sits up," has been invisible. He is "somewhere in the early forties" — but not yet "well-presented" looking. People of sixty would speak of him as "a young man" ; people of sixteen would of course think him of an advanced age. He is urban, intelligent look- THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 9 ing — a "man of the world"; very "attractive." His clothes are of an imported texture, pleasant for travel, and he has on a soft hat and a light- weight overcoat. The STATION-MASTER, having wound the clock, looks at him. STATION-MASTER. (Casually) Been asleep, I ex- pect. (Gets down from chair.) AMES. (Passing a gloved hand over his eyes) I have not. (He looks at the STATION-MASTER drows- ily.) You aren't the same one, are you. (He states this as an interesting discovery; it is not a question.) STATION-MASTER. I'm not the same one what? AMES. You aren't the same Station-Master that was here this afternoon. STATION-MASTER. He ain't no Station-Master; he's my brother-in-law. (Starts with chair.) AMES. Oh ! STATION-MASTER. He jes' spelled me to-day; I was teamin'. AMES. I thought he seemed to be an amateur. STATION-MASTER. (Moving right with the chair to return it to the room off right) How? (He means, "What did you say?-") AMES. He seemed bashful. About giving any in- formation, I mean. STATION-MASTER. Information? He ain't got no infamation to give. Never did have. AMES. He struck *me in that light — particularly about trains. STATION-MASTER. Well, right to-night, I ain't much better, myself. The wires are all down after them storms; the bridge at Millersville washed out on one road and they was a big freight smash on the other one. My brother-in-law says he told you that much. io THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. (Gloomily) Yes; he did tell me that much. STATION-MASTER. Well, the Lord A'mighty couldn't tell you no more till them wires start work- in' again. (He moves to go off right with the chair, then turns back.) Where'd you say you was aimin' to git to? AMES. Well, New York — eventually ! (Plain- tively) I have a place there with a bed in it — and food. STATION-MASTER. (Reflectively) New York. You got to git from here down to Uticky first — then change for Albany. AMES. (Drearily) Yes, I know, I know. I made a mistake in coming round by this junction. ... I ought to have walked. STATION-MASTER. (With a short laugh) I reckon ! You'd a-got there pretty near as soon, mebbe. These here hurry canes — (He means hurri- canes)— got train service in this whole section jest about disorganized. They say it's sun-spots — 7 dunno if 'tis or not, though. (Exits right with his chair. AMES rises and goes to the window, he looks out toward left. After a moment he goes to the door up right, opens it. Steps just outside the door, but remains in view. Then speaks to someone invisible and apparently at a little distance off left.) AMES. (Hesitating) Ah — don't you think this is pretty foolish ? (He waits a moment for an answer. None is heard; he speaks louder.) I say, I think this is — ah — don't you think, yourself, this is pretty fool- ish? Ah — I'm sure you can hear me, you know! (He waits again.) Ah (He seems about to ad- dress further remarks to the invisible person; but de- cides not to do so, and with a somewhat baffled and puzzled air, comes in, closes the door, sits on first bench, murmuring rather crossly — ) Well, all right ! (Moves lunch basket a little center of bench. The THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 11 STATION-MASTER returns from the room off right. He speaks as he enters.) STATION-MASTER. Nary a single click from my telegraph instament. (He refers to room off right, then he comes over and looks at the luggage on the front bench.) See you been gunnun. (He means gunning.) AMES. What? STATION-MASTER. See you been fishun and gun- nun up in the woods. AMES. Yes, I have been up at a lodge in the woods, that's how I happen to be here — getting out of the woods. STATION-MASTER. (Examining the guns) Have any luck? AMES. (Abysmal) No. STATION-MASTER. If you'd a-shot anything or caught any fish you'd a-done well by yourself to bring it along; you c'd a-built a fire and cooked it, any- ways. AMES. (Roused to earnestness) See here; your brother-in-law told me there was absolutely no food in this neighborhood. STATION-MASTER. He was right. They ain't. AMES. But, my Lord, the people in this neighbor- hood have to live on something! STATION-MASTER. Ain't no people in this neigh- borhood 'cept me and my brother-in-law's fam'lies. AMES. Well, even you and your brother-in-law have to eat, don't you ? STATION-MASTER. My hens ain't layin'. (Sits on front bench, center.) We got jest three eggs in two days from seventeen hens. AMES. (Pessimistically) I suppose you used all three eggs. STATION-MASTER. (With a dry laugh) I s'pose we did, among seven children. We had nine potatoes left and about four slices o' bacon. That's all we 12 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS had fer supper, and we won't have no breakfast at all unless the north-bound train gits through. April's an awful scanty month in the country, and I ex- pected supplies to-day myself. You ain't the only one them sun-spot's been foolin' with. AMES. I suppose that's as good an explanation as any for a train over eleven hours late — sun-spots ! STATION-MASTER. (Looking in the lunch basket) Why, you got food here, right now. Good food ! AMES. One chicken sandwich and one hard-boiled egg; left over from a light lunch — a very light lunch. STATION-MASTER. Well, why don't you eat it? AMES. (Shortly) It isn't mine. (Pushes basket to STATION-MASTER. J STATION-MASTER. (Surprised) Oh! (He nods; glances up off left, and nods again, as if understand- ing.) Well, waitin' fer trains does git people kind of pettish with each other. (Rises and moves right. Glances off left.) I noticed your wife's still a-set- tin' on that baggage-truck out yonder. AMES. (Shortly) She isn't my wife ! STATION-MASTER. Oh ! Your lady, I mean. She's still settin' out yonder, I see. AMES. (Rather bothered, shakes his head, mut- ters) She isn't my lady. (He gets up and goes to the window.) STATION-MASTER. Well, excuse me. My brother- in-law, he took her and you fer married. (AMES comes down left.) He told me you and her had kind of a spat, jest before he left here, this evenin'. But of course a man's got a right to quarrel with other women's well's his wife. AMES. (Slightly annoyed with himself for being annoyed by this report of the STATION-MASTER'S brother-in-law) The — ah — lady and I were hardly — ah — quarreling. STATION-MASTER. (Placatively) To tell the truth . . . (Crosses left.) My brother-in-law ain't THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 13 hardly got sense enough to tell the difference between a couple that's quarrelin' and a couple that's jest kind of startin' to make up to each other like. (Sits left end of front bench.) AMES. (More annoyed) This lady and I weren't doing either. I never saw her before I got on the train this morning. STATION-MASTER. Well, that often happens. I've knowed plenty of perfeckly respectable people to do it, too. You might say it's nature. AMES. What is? STATION-MASTER. Why, f er strange couples to git to talkin' to each other — and all so on — on a train. AMES. (Rather crossly) I didn't speak to this lady on the train. (He goes up left and comes right down again.) In fact, we didn't speak to each other till we'd been moping about this God-forsaken sta- tion for an hour. Then, as there wasn't anything else in the world in sight but mud — and your brother-in- law — and she didn't need to guess very hard to guess I was hungry — she offered to share her lunch basket with me, and we naturally got to talking. STATION-MASTER. Well, sir, a person can git mighty well acquainted with anybody in about ten hours' talkin'. AMES. (Crossly) We haven't been talking for the last two hours. STATION-MASTER. Got acquainted at noon and quit speakin' already! (Rises. Chuckles.) AMES. Oh, no. She still speaks — at least she nodded to show that she heard me, the last time I spoke to her. (He is grimly humorous here, but does not smile.) STATION-MASTER. Well, sir ; it's funny, some peo- ple don't more'n say howdy-do. They ean't neither of 'em hardly stand a word the other one says. (Crosses right.) I sh'd think she'd be chilly out there, by this time, though. I4 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. (Looks at the STATION-MASTER earnestly) You seem to be a man of unusual experience. (Crosses center.) STATION-MASTER. Unusual? I guess if you think that, you ain't married. AMES. (Muttering) No, and not likely to be. STATION-MASTER. Look out, mister! No man in a spat with a lady ain't safe! Where's she bound fer? AMES. I think she said a station about thirty or forty miles from here — Amity. STATION-MASTER. Amity? She's worse off'n what you are ! AMES. No, that's impossible! STATION-MASTER. Amity's on the branch line. Everything's blowed to hell down that way; creek's over the rails and all. AMES. Isn't there any way of getting a motor car ? (Rises.) STATION-MASTER. Not with the telephone lines down like they are. I don't reckon no car could git through these roads, neither. AMES. (Gloomily) Yes; so your brother-in-law said. (A clicking is heard off right.) Isn't that your telegraph instrument ? (Indicating right.) STATION-MASTER. (Jumping up) So 'tis. (Go- ing right.) That means they got the wire up again at Logan's station. Well, now we'll see what's what, mebbe! (Exits right, leaving the door open. The telegraph instrument can be heard clicking. AMES listens at the open door, right, a moment; then he goes to the door up right, opens it, and speaks off ; as before.) AMES. I think you'd better come in now, Miss Stuart. (In response, a thrillingly lovely voice is heard, though the words are not necessarily discer- nible. However, what Miss STUART says is, "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you." ) I really think THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 15 you'd better come in. There may be some news of your train — or mine ! (This seems to mean more to Miss STUART than have his previous appeals. Her voice is heard again, "Oh!" She is evidently ap- proaching. AMES, seriously) That's better. Do come in and be sensible. (Her voice is heard once more before she appears. A faint amusement and protest are audible in it: "Sensible? My dear sir!" He holds the door open for her as she appears and comes down. Then he follows. She is of a lovely and charming presence; one is aware of that instantly though she is pretty thoroughly muffled in furs and veils; and one becomes even more aware of it as she pushes up the veil from her face as she comes in. A muff is held in her left hand.) Miss STUART. My dear sir, I think maybe I could be more sensible if the news turns out to be of my train. Could you stand its being about my train in- stead of yours, Mr. Ames ? (Comes down right. She has gone toward the lunch basket.) AMES. (A little stiffly) If mine came first you'd be relieved of me. (At upper end of benches, left.) Miss STUART. Yes; so I should. (She lifts the lid of the lunch basket, closed by the STATION- MASTER.,) Oh, you haven't eaten the sandwich — nor the egg either ! (As if in reproachful surprise.) AMES. (Stiffly) Certainly not. (Comes down left.) Miss STUART. (Lifting a hard-boiled egg from the basket daintily, in a gloved hand) Didn't you even nibble at it ? (She looks at him, not at the egg.) AMES. (Stiffly) I did not. Miss STUART. Are you sure ? AMES. (Indignantly) I'm not in the habit of "nibbling" things. Miss STUART. (With a hint of suspicion and severity) You're sure? I knew a Bishop once who used to steal little bits of icing off icing cakes. He'd 16 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS slip out in the kitchen on baking days when no one was looking — and then he'd deny it! AMES. (Coldly, interrupting her) I'm not a Bishop, please. Miss STUART. (Reasonably) How could I tell? I've only known you — (She glances at the dock) — ten hours and thirty-some minutes, and this is the first time you've mentioned that you're not a Bishop. (With an increase of severity.) Why didn't you eat this egg? AMES. (Coldly) You know perfectly well why I didn't. Miss STUART. But I thought you would, if I left you alone with it. I've left you alone with it on purpose — two hours. I'm afraid you're stubborn. AMES. More personalities? Miss STUART. Well, doesn't a question of what one eats have to be rather personal? AMES. I think you made it personal when you lost your temper. Miss STUART. (Interrupting) When I lost my temper? Oh, oh! AMES. But you did ! (Coming toward her.) You lost your temper and declined to sit in the same room with me. Rather than do that you went out in the night air and sat two hours on a baggage truck ! (Turns away to left.) Miss STUART. (Hurriedly) Please listen, Mr. Ames — your name is Ames, isn't it? (There is a stronger hint of humor in her voice.) AMES. You seemed to have no doubt of it before you lost your Miss STUART. (Interrupting) Mr. Ames, let's put it this way : I lost — your temper ; as for me, it seems at least you ought to distinguish between a loss of temper and a sense of injury. AMES. (Quickly) Yes, I had the sense of injury. Miss STUART. When we found there was only THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 17 one egg and one sandwich left for dinner, and no other food in reach, I said AMES. (Interrupting) You distinctly said it wouldn't be enough for two. Miss STUART. Yes. That's what I "distinctly" said. It really isn't enough for one, is it ? AMES. Need I explain again, I had no intention of asking to share it with you ? Miss STUART. No. Don't explain again. When I said there wasn't enough for two I meant AMES. (Interrupting) It was yours, and you meant you wanted it all, naturally. Miss STUART. (Indignantly) Oh! AMES. What I minded was your thinking I ex- pected any of it. Miss STUART. When I said there wasn't enough for two I meant I expected to eat all of it, did I? AMES. Why, of course. Miss STUART. (After drawing an indignant breath — puts egg in basket) Now, before I go out for two hours more on the baggage-truck, will you please ask that man if there is any news of my train? AMES. (Stiffly) Certainly. Miss STUART. Thank you. AMES. Don't mention it. . (Goes to door, right, and speaks off.) What do they wire you about STATION-MASTER. (Voice off right) Nothin' yet about no passenger traffic. AMES. (Turning toward Miss STUARTJ He says there's nothing yet. Miss STUART. (Sinking upon the front bench) Oh ! (She sighs with exasperation, sits on front bench.) You said there was news. AMES. There will be in a few minutes, now the wire's working. Miss STUART. Well, do you still pretend not to understand ? AMES. Understand what? (Comes down right.) 18 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Miss STUART. That of course I meant men need more sustenance than women, and of course when I said there wasn't enough food for two I meant / didn't want any — that is, I did want it, certainly, but I wouldn't touch it because — because you're a man and ought — to have it all. AMES. (In an earnestly interested voice) Do you honestly mean that ? (He sits on the bench, right of Miss STUART, looking at her with great earnestness.) Miss STUART. Why, of course. AMES. Are you serious ? Miss STUART. Why, of course I'm serious. AMES. You really wanted me to eat it all? Miss STUART. Certainly. AMES. (Remorsefully) I thought you were warn- ing me your hospitality was over when it came to one egg and one sandwich. Miss STUART. (Glancing at the clock) Ten hours and thirty-seven minutes. You certainly ought to know me well enough to understand better than that! AMES. You honestly mean I ought to eat it all be- cause I'm a man ? Miss STUART. Of course. It hurts a man a great deal more not to indulge himself than it does a wo- man. When there's only a little of anything, it ought always to be given to the man. AMES. Because he's the more selfish? Miss STUART. No. Because he has to have his strength. A woman can live "on her nerves." AMES. So you think the woman ought to give up the food to the man ? (This is serious on his part, and appears to be serious on hers; though one cannot always be sure when she is serious. There is a mys- teriousness about her; we won't really know her for a considerable time.) Miss STUART. I think she'd better. If she didn't she might be mistreated! THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 19 AMES. (Frowning) So! Her unselfishness is only self-preservation, is it? Miss STUART. (With a twinkle) No. She wants to preserve them both. If the Indians come the man will have to do most of the fighting; if the waters rise he'll have to build a raft. If it gets very chilly — (She glances at the stove) — he'll have to build a fire. AMES. (Following her glance) It is very chilly. I wonder (He rises and goes to the door right, calls off) How about a fire in that stove? STATION-MASTER. (Off right) It's fixed, if you want to light it. AMES. All right. (He crosses to the stove, pro- ducing a match which he lights and places within the door of the stove. In a moment a rosy glow comes from the door of the stove, which opens toward the right. He watches it and the lady inscrutably watches him.) Miss STUART. It is a new experience. (She loosens her furs as the glow grows stronger from the stove.) AMES. My lighting a fire for you? Miss STUART. (Indicating the lunch basket) No. To see a man making such, a fuss about eating when he's starving. AMES. (Returning to her, he smiles) Suppose we divide it ? Miss STUART. You might have thought of that before. AMES. / might? Why, it was you that said Miss STUART. Have you a pocket-knife — with a very clean blade ? (He hands his knife to her with a blade open.) Yes, I thought you looked like a man who would have. I'll do the dividing, and you'll do the choosing (He sits end of bench. She cuts the egg so that the two parts are anything but equal; the smaller part is about a fifth of the egg. She cuts 20 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS the sandwich in the same uneven way.) There. Choose. AMES. Thanks. (He takes the small bit of egg and the tiny fragment of the sandwich.) Miss STUART. Well, eat them. (He does so. His portions vanish as if hardly realised as they pass. Meanwhile she is cutting the egg and the sandwich again.) AMES. (As he swallows the two small bits to- gether) Thanks. Aren't you Miss STUART. Oh, yes, I'm only (She of- fers the newly divided portions.) Here. AMES. Oh, no. I've had my share. Miss STUART. (Laughing a little) That was a test to see how you'd choose. Now it's a fair divis- ion. AMES. No. I really (He takes off his over- coat and sits on the bench, near her.) Miss STUART. Don't let's be ridiculous any more. I imagine neither of us has much right to behave like a child of ten — or nineteen, for that matter. Here ! (She insists upon his taking what she offers.) AMES. It doesn't seem fair. (He accepts what is offered and eats.) Murder, but I am hungry ! Miss STUART. And there's still come coffee in the thermos. Didn't you know it? (She pours it in the cap-cup of the bottle as she speaks, turning the bottle upside down to get the last.) AMES. No! Is there some coffee left? My, my! (She puts the cup in his hand.) Coffee! Miss STUART. Yes, that is lucky. (She puts the remaining bit of egg upon the remaining bit of sand- wich.) Here, this is yours, too, to go with the coffee. Eat it ! (He does so before he thinks.) Thafs it ! AMES. Oh, lovely! A whole mouthful at once! (He finishes the coffee in a gulp; then starts.) That was yours! (Rises.) Miss STUART. No, no, it wasn't. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 21 AMES. Why, it was! (He goes back of bench to center.) Have you given me all the coffee, too? (He shakes the thermos bottle and turns it upside down.) Well, by George! Did you do that to es- cape mistreatment? Miss STUART. No. It was just the way I was brought up. (Goes left and throws paper napkins, etc., into stove.) AMES. You were brought up to make a man be selfish ? Miss STUART. About food and when he thinks he's sick, yes. That was the old-fashioned way of bringing girls up, wasn't it ? AMES. I thought that went out a long time ago. Miss STUART. It prevailed in my girlhood, you see. AMES. (Seriously, quickly) Well, that couldn't have been very long ago. Miss STUART. (Putting the thermos bottle in the basket and closing the lid, she smiles faintly.) No ? Hasn't the Station-Master any news for us yet? ( The STATION-MASTER answers for himself. Enters right as she speaks, carrying his lantern and a bucket of coal. Goes left, back of benches, and down to stove.) STATION-MASTER. Not very good, I reckon. . . . Least not as you'd think. You won't git no train fer Amity to-night. Miss STUART. (Disturbed, but she has usually somewhere a little humor left for her own misfor- tune.) Not to-night! STATION-MASTER. No'm; an' so fur as / know, not before noon, or mebbe three — four — five o'clock in the afternoon to-morrow. Miss STUART. (Weakly) Will there be any food in this part of America to-morrow ? 22 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS STATION-MASTER. (Pouring some coal into the stove) Not as I know of now. Miss STUART. Good gracious ! AMES. (Huskily) How about my train ? STATION-MASTER. Number Twenty-one? If she don't git no later she'll be due by eight or nine in the morning. AMES (Quickly) Is there a diner on her ? STATION-MASTER. On Number Twenty-one? A diner? My gosh! (He sets the coal bucket down by the stove -with a bang, and puts shovel full of coal in stove.) AMES. Isn't there a buffet? STATION-MASTER. Mister, they's a caboose ; that's all. AMES. Oh, my! STATION-MASTER. (Buttoning his overcoat and moving toward right) They's more coal in yonder, if you need it. Miss STUART. (Looking at him incredulously) Where are you going? (She jumps up, continuing instantly) Mr. Ames, you'd better ask him where he's going. STATION-MASTER. (Easily) Me? Why, you ast me yourself. Where you think I'm goin'? I'm goin' home to bed. Miss STUART. (Gravely, quickly) You are? (Rises.) STATION-MASTER. Yes'm. I got to sleep same as anybody. AMES. What? Why, you can't! STATION-MASTER. Why, / ain't got anything more to do around here till jest before Twenty-one's due. (Then, reassuringly) I'll be back by seven-thirty in the morning, though. AMES. But this lady — where's she going to sleep? STATION-MASTER. (Disclaiming responsibility) I couldn't tell you. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 23 AMES. What about your house? Can't she . . . STATION-MASTER. (Looking at Miss STUART) In the first place, how would she git through the mud ? (Shows his boots, dried mud to the knee.) AMES. Why — why, we could take her on the baggage-truck. (This, he thinks, is a real idea.) Miss STUART. (Graciously) No, thank you. STATION-MASTER. No room for her if she got there. No way to make none, either. AMES. What about your brother-in-law's house ? STATION-MASTER. 'Bout same as me. Him and his wife and two childern's in one room and the other five childern's in the other. Miss STUART. No, thank you. AMES. Well, but good heavens . . . Miss STUART. (Soothingly) Never mind. It's all right. AMES. (Turning back to the STATION-MASTER) Well, but look here STATION-MASTER. Mister, you can make yourself comfatble enough ; it's nice and warm here now ; and night-duty when they ain't no trains runnin', why that ain't part o' my job. I got a heavy day to-mor- row, and I need sleep. Good night, lady ! (He goes out briskly up right. Miss STUART goes to stove, left.) AMES. Well, good heavens (He goes up nervously, opens the door, steps out and calls after the STATION-MASTER.^ Listen — you! See here! STATION-MASTER. (Outside) Good night ! AMES. But see here (There is no response, and after a few moments AMES closes the door, much disturbed. Miss STUART stands near the stove, ob- serves him; then laughs faintly.) Miss STUART. Don't worry about me ; I'm an old traveler. We can be comfortable enough; it is warm now ! 24 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. I'll — I'll go take a nap — later — on the baggage-truck. (Jerks his head toward up left.) Miss STUART. How absurd ! I nearly froze out there, even in these. (Her furs.) AMES. (Almost pathetically) But what's to be Miss STUART. Nothing. When railroads break down passengers can't travel, can they ? AMES. I ought to be able to think of something to do. (Comes down right.) Miss STUART. Well, for one thing, now that all the officials have gone, I don't think you need to bother about that sign any longer. (She points to "No Smoking." ) Don't you usually smoke — after dinner? (She laughs on the word "dinner" with a glance at the lunch basket, and then sits again, throw- ing back her fur coat.) AMES. (A little awkwardly) Oh, thanks. (Comes down right. He brings forth a cigarette-case.) But that won't be of much use, will it? Miss STUART. Well, what else useful can you think of ? AMES. I can't think of a thing. Miss STUART. Neither can I. So — (She laughs faintly, crosses to left center, and sits on front bench) — so where are your matches? AMES. (Produces a box of matches, then makes a gesture as if to offer her his cigarette-case) Ah — do you ? Miss STUART. (Shaking her head) No; I still stick to the way I was brought up. (She takes off her heavy coat. Not rising.) AMES. (Seriously) No ! Is there still an old- fashioned woman left in America? Miss STUART. Yes. "Left" is the word. Left over! AMES. How "left over"? Miss STUART. Old maids are, aren't they ? THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 25 AMES. Old bachelors are! That's what / am. (Lights his cigarette, adding grimly) An old bache- lor, and perhaps an older one than I look, too! A little, that is. Miss STUART. (Wistfully) What's it matter how many times you've seen the earth go round the sun ? That's all we mean when we say "a year," isn't it? Our ages ought to be reckoned another way ; not in these foolish "years." AMES. What other way do you suggest ? Miss STUART. Well, let's call a man as old as he behaves — toward a woman ! AMES. Then how old will you call a woman? Miss STUART. As old as she makes men behave toward her. AMES. (With a little laugh) Well, if I'm as old as I behave now-a-days toward women, I'm dead. Miss STUART. (Smiling) But what's the matter with the women you know ? AMES. (Laughs ruefully, and walks about as he speaks) Well, most of those I did know are so mar- ried and raising children I hardly ever see 'em at all. And I just can't stand the new generation. Miss STUART. (Thoughtfully) Yes — there is a new American girl. I've got one myself. AMES. (Staring) You have? Miss STUART. I'm bringing up an orphan niece - — or she's bringing me up; it's hard to say which. In fact, I'm bringing up two orphan nieces. (She smiles at a thought.) Only one of 'em belongs to the new generation, though. You don't like these new young things, then? AMES. Great Lord, no! They smoke and drink and wear men's clothes and short hair Miss STUART. Well, boys' clothes are better for the outdoor things they do nowadays, aren't they? AMES. That may be, but they've given up a great thing to get this new liberty I hear they talk about. 26 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Miss STUART. What great thing did they give up ? AMES. (Emphatically) Charm ! Miss STUART. You haven't met a charming one? AMES. There aren't any. How can a brazen little hussy in breeches with a flask of home-made gin in her hip pocket have any charm f Miss STUART. Ah — but she can, because she has youth, and youth is charm. Don't you care for the youth you see in a young girl? AMES. (Sitting down by her) I'll tell you what I care for. I care for the graces I used to see in the girls I grew up with. Miss STUART. You're sure it wasn't really their youth that gave them the graces ? AMES. I can show you what I care for! (Very earnestly and decisively.) To-morrow we'll be mov- ing miles and miles apart. . . . Miss STUART. Will we? I'm afraid you think more of this railroad system than I do. AMES. I'm serious. Probably after to-morrow morning we'll never see each other again. Miss STUART. Why, I feel as if you were my most intimate friend ! Life-long ! After we finished Italy, wasn't it two hours you talked about religion? AMES. What I'm trying to show you Miss STUART. Yes; I forgot. AMES. I had a temptation to tell you something that would show you. Miss STUART. (Gaily) Why, you could tell me anything. I couldn't stop you. (Her gesture indi- cates the surrounding isolation.) AMES. Then I will. I'll tell you what I thought about you when I got on that little junk-line train this morning. I hadn't expected to see anybody looking like you getting on at one of these way sta- tions Miss STUART. I'm a farmer, you know. I have a farm down near Amity. I've been away to see THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 27 about a new tenant for part of the land! (Then abruptly) Oh, I don't mean to stop you ! Go on ! AMES. When you got on the train I thought: "There ! There's a lady !" When these new-gener- ation girls get on a train I usually think: "There! There's a rowdy !" Miss STUART. You must have met some strange ones! AMES. I haven't met any. Just hearing and look- ing at 'em's enough for me! But when I looked at you — well, I'm going to talk as sentimentally as I feel, just for once in my life — when I looked at you I caught a — a perfume of sweeter days — yes, better days than this ! And I'll go ahead, now I'm started ; I'm hungry as a bear, in spite of your giving me all your lunch, and I did feel really cross, during our quarrel, but I'm glad the sun-spots — he thought it was the sun-spots — I'm glad they've given me this chance to know you. Miss STUART. My dear man, you don't know an earthly thing about me ! AMES. Oh, yes, I do. There are some people you know all about in a little while. Miss STUART. "All about ?" Good gracious ! AMES. No; not all. You don't know all the lovely things about 'em, but you do know there aren't any things that aren't lovely ; you're one of those transparently perfect things, Miss Stuart. Miss STUART. What? AMES. (Rises and goes a little to the right) You are. . And that's all there is to it ! Miss STUART. And only to think of it! AMES. (Turning to her, rather sharply) To think of what? Miss STUART. So much praise — bought by one hard-boiled egg and a sandwich ! AMES. (Rather brusquely) Well, some of it is for that, if you want to know it! It seemed a little 28 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS thing; but it showed that when you were hungry yourself you'd force your last bit of food on a stranger. Miss STUART. A "stranger"? Why, by this time I know you better than I do my most intimate friend, Mr. Ames! AMES. (Sits, Then pacing up and down and go- ing on with his thought) I kept looking at you on the train, though you didn't know it Miss STUART. I was brought up always not to know it. AMES. (Continuing) I kept looking at you, and j Miss STUART. (Quoting him) "I said to myself, 'There's a woman I'd hate to be cast away in a desert junction with !' " AMES. I said to myself, "There's the first woman I've seen in a long time I'd like to know !" Miss STUART. How long a time? AMES. Well, since this new type came in. Miss STUART. (Thoughtfully) I'm afraid you wouldn't approve of my niece! AMES. If you're bringing her up I don't believe she'd be the new type. Miss STUART. Oh, yes, she is ! It doesn't matter who brings 'em up ; they get it from one another. AMES. Well, let's forget the new type just now. Miss STUART. (Smiling) All right. AMES. I'd rather keep to what I feel about you. Miss STUART. (Nodding smilingly) Well, keep to it — it began promisingly. AMES. (Coming toward her a little way) I will. I'll speak out! As a man gets older most of his friends marry off — or they die off — it's the same thing so far as he's concerned! Miss STUART. (Gravely) Yes ; I know it is ! AMES. Well, a man gets pretty lonely. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 29 Miss STUART. Men always seem to think that's so singular ! AMES. (Quietly) All I meant to say is — (She yawns) — it's been a great thing for me to have a woman's companionship for a day. Miss STUART. Well, it still seems to be going on. AMES. I wish . . . Miss STUART. Yes? (She conceals a yawn by turning away quickly. She doesn't wish to yawn. She is interested; but she is beginning to be really threatened by drowsiness. He does not perceive this, and the symptoms are, so far, very slight.) AMES. (Thoughtfully) Of course you don't know anything about me — except to-day Miss STUART. I do, a little. AMES. (Surprised) How? Miss STUART. Why, you said your name was William Ames : I supposed you were the William Berry Ames that the papers say is so remarkable. "Remarkable's" the word they always use. AMES. (Frowning) I'm not much in newspapers — and isn't it obvious I'm not remarkable? Miss STUART. Oh, yes ; I've seen it any number of times : "Mr. William Berry Ames, still playing remarkable polo." AMES. (Sharply) That's my uncle! (Rises.) It's "still remarkable that he plays polo at sixty-six!" "Remarkable" because he's sixty-six! They always use the word remarkable about elderly people. And you thought . . . Miss STUART. (A little disturbed, hastily) I'm so sorry ! AMES. (Somewhat upset) You thought I was that old man ! Miss STUART. (Quickly) Oh, I never heard he was quite sixty-six. AMES. So ! You didn't see how I could be quite sixty-six ! 30 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Miss STUART. (Hastily, with apparent serious- ness in placating him) But wouldn't it be wonder- ful if you were! To be sixty-six and look only AMES. (Interrupting) What age do I look? Miss STUART. Ah, let's not go into that. It might become mutual ! AMES. I can't get over it ; you thought I was my uncle ! Miss STUART. You must tell him about it. And then tell me sometime if it upsets him too. AMES. (Mollified; his tone changes) "Sometime." You think we might see each other again after to- morrow ? Miss STUART. Why not, if you think it would be pleasant ? I should be (She is caught by a yawn and conceals it imperfectly.) I should be — very glad AMES. (Sadly) Oh, you're sleepy. Miss STUART. I'm not. I'm interested. I'm in- terested in everything you've been saying. I was never more interested in my life. AMES. Honestly ? (Sits.) Miss STUART. At least, it's been quite a time since I've had as cheering things said to me as you've been saying. I like it. AMES. Could you stand some more ? Miss STUART. I — think so. AMES. Then, do let me see you again after to- morrow, will you? Miss STUART. (After a moment) Yes. AMES. Could I come to Amity to see you — some- time? Miss STUART. Why, I think so. AMES. Could I come — before long? Miss STUART. If — you like. AMES. (Huskily, gravely, quickly) I think I should like it more than I've ever liked anything in my life. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 31 Miss STUART. (Rather startled) Why, that's — that's saying quite a great deal — isn't it ? AMES. I can't help it. It's the way I feel. Miss STUART. Yes, but at these pleasant quieter years you say you have arrived at — haven't you learned more caution? AMES. More caution than what? Miss STUART. Than to say quite so much as you just did — and to an unknown woman ! AMES. (Quickly, with feeling that increases) I tell you you're not unknown. You've shown me — yes, just in the way you fed me, if you like — yes, and in the dear, pretty way you took this being "cast away" with me here, you've shown me you are the old-fashioned, perfect kind of woman — I thought had disappeared. Well, I've found you — I don't want to let you go ! My life has been getting so confound- edly lonely — I — well, why not? Miss STUART. (Gently) I don't know — you're a little indefinite, perhaps? AMES. It's a long time since I felt like this — and the reason I'm lonely's because fifteen or so years ago I didn't speak when something like this came over me. Instead, I went away to think it over, and another man spoke first. Miss STUART. (With a humor that fights with drowsiness and an inclination to take him seriously) You needn't be afraid of that now. Farming means a very retired life, with me. No one else will "speak" while you retire to think it over. (She closes her eyes for a moment.) AMES. I don't want to think it over at all ! Lis- ten. Do I seem to you the sort of man you could like pretty well? Miss STUART. (Looking up quickly) Oh, I think so. (She closes her eyes for a moment again.) AMES. (So impulsively as to be almost explosive) 32 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Well, if you'll let me hope something might come of it, I'll be any kind of man you want me to be ! Miss STUART. (Opening her eyes quickly) Aren't you a little susceptible, Mr. Ames? AMES. Does it look like it ; to still be a bachelor at my age ? Miss STUART. But it struck me you were — almost — proposing to me just then. AMES. (With great feeling) Well, I was. lam/ Miss STUART. Almost. AMES. Almost or quite — just as you like, Miss Stuart. Miss STUART. (Smiling a little) Perhaps it had better be "almost." AMES. (With feeling) If it's to be that way— almost a proposal — is there any chance of your— almost — thinking of it? Miss STUART. (Gently and smiling) Why — I might almost — think of it — sometime. (Again the symptoms of drowsiness overtake her.) AMES. (Remorsefully) You are sleepy! Miss STUART. (With feeble insistence) I'm not! AMES. (Ruefully humorous, rising) I ought to be ashamed trying to keep you awake with a pro- posal of marriage ! (As he speaks he places a satchel on the end of bench and rolls his overcoat over if for a pillow.) Miss STUART. Was that all you made it for — to keep me awake? AMES. You know better. Here; lie down. I'll cover you over. Miss STUART. I won't take your overcoat. You'll need it. The satchel's a good enough pillow. AMES. No. It isn't. Lie down. Miss STUART. Take your overcoat away or I'll sit up all night. I will take it away. AMES. (Submitting) All right. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 33 Miss STUART. When you lie down yourself, put your overcoat over you. Will you? AMES. If I need it. Miss STUART. (In a matter-of-fact voice) No. Promise me. AMES. I will. Miss STUART. (Lying down with her cheek against the satchel) Ah, that's — ah! (She sighs with satisfaction.) AMES. (Gently covers her over with her fur coat and stole. Then he discovers her muff.) Here. This is a better pillow. (He places it under her head.) Miss STUART. Thank you. You're very kind. (She is silent; then says sleepily) I knew you were. AMES. Knew I was what ? Miss STUART. (Contentedly) Kind. AMES. (Muttering) Who wouldn't be? (He goes to the stove.) Miss STUART. (With her eyes shut) I had to be up at four o'clock and drive seventeen miles to get my train. I'd rather stay awake and listen to you — you'll forgive me for being — so sleepy — won't you? (AMES turns the damper on stove.) AMES. (Smiling, as he looks round) Yes. I'll forgive you f (He takes his overcoat and spreads it on the second bench; puts a "suitcase" for a pillow.) Miss STUART. (In a sweet, drowsy voice, with her eyes closed) It certainly didn't seem — appreciative — going almost to sleep — when you were almost pro- posing— but I do appreciate it — very much AMES. (With feeling) You dear thing ! I wasn't "almost proposing." I was all proposing and you know it. Miss STUART. Well, it's very nice of you. I think I'm glad — you were. But AMES. But what? 34 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Miss STUART. We don't need the light, do we? If you leave the stove door open AMES. (Goes up and snaps off the switch) There ! (A rosy glow from the stove door crosses the benches, falling upon the recumbent lady.) Miss STUART. (Cosily) There. That's better. (AMES goes to the second bench.) You'll put your overcoat over you ? AMES. Yes. Miss STUART. What have you got for a pillow ? AMES. It's all right. Miss STUART. A suitcase? AMES. It's plenty. (Miss STUART, without open- ing her eyes or lifting her head, pulls the muff from beneath her cheek and lets her cheek rest on the satchel. Then, not otherwise moving, she swings the muff behind her to him.) AMES. What's that for? Miss STUART. Your pillow. Take it. AMES. I won't. Miss STUART. You will. AMES. Of course I won't. -Miss STUART. (Gently and confidently) You will. AMES. You do make me selfish. (He takes the pillow, places it, and sits on the second bench, pre- paring to lie down and pull his overcoat over him.) Miss STUART. (In a very sleepy murmur) I'm sorry I thought you were your uncle. (She is lying on her right side, and she lifts her left hand over the back of the bench to him, the rest of her not moving. He takes it reverently, kisses it lightly; she brings the hand back and puts it under her cheek. She speaks disjointedly and very drowsily.) I only thought so because the papers said he was so re- markable. AMES. (Gently) I don't mind that now. (Lies down on second bench.) Miss STUART. It would be too bad if you met THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 35 some pretty, very young thing after — after it was too late. Most men care more for early youth than they do for (A little yawn interrupts her.) AMES. (Gently) Than they do for what? Miss STUART. Than they do for anything. Is the muff all right for a pillow? AMES. (Gently) I never had such a pillow be- fore. Miss STUART. Aren't you sleepy, too ? AMES. Yes ; the truth is, I am. It seems strange, when I feel so much that's new to me — to be sleepy — Miss STUART. Oh, no. We aren't a young couple at a college dance — getting engaged. AMES. No — of course not; but aren't we — al- most (Rises and looks at her over the back of bench.) Miss STUART. I think— you must go to sleep now. AMES. Yes, I will. (He stretches himself on the bench.) Miss STUART. Are you at all — sure? AMES. Yes, I am. Miss STUART. I know what I say sounds very sleepy, and I ant almost asleep, but my mind, you know AMES. Yes ? Miss STUART. (More sleepily than ever) My mind's working just as clearly as ever, and I keep thinking you've said all this — so suddenly — perhaps you are a little susceptible — perhaps when you see some pretty young thing — you'll — you'll AMES. (Decisively) No, I won't. Miss STUART. (Dreamily, in a soft, almost con- tented voice, and smiling a little) Perhaps not. AMES. May I say just one last thing to you ? It seems foolish — but it would be pretty lovely to me if you'd let me say it. Miss STUART. Say what? AMES. May I say to you, "Good night, dear" ? 36 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Miss STUART. I believe you might. Say it. AMES. (Gently) Good night, dear. (Her left hand goes up again, his own hand is seen above the back of the bench, clasping it; then she returns it to her cheek.) Miss STUART. Good night, dear. (There is quiet.) (The Act Drop descends for a few seconds, and rises. Everything is as it was, except that the rosy glow from the stove has paled, and a gray light shows outside the window. The clock marks five-forty-five. The light outside the window grows a little stronger; distant trees just coming into new leaf on muddy hills are re- vealed there — an April landscape. The light continually grows stronger throughout the whole scene. A girl's voice is barely heard, shouting in the distance, "Hello, there!" "Hell-ooo, there!" Then, after a pause, a stamping is heard on the platform outside, as though someone stamped mud from his shoes. A quick, sharp tread is heard; the knob of the door up right is fumbled — then the door is opened and a girl of nineteen enters. She is distractingly pretty, in spite of — or it may be partly because of — her general style and costume. She wears a soft "sport" hat, beneath which her thick "bobbed" hair is additionally coquettish. She has on a short overcoat, knickerbockers, green stockings and high-laced shoes; the latter covered with mud which has also splashed her stockings. She comes in briskly and goes down left, then halts short with a breathed exclamation as she sees the two sleepers. "Wdl, for the love o' Mike!" This is in a husky whisper. She stares. A light snoring comes from the second bench. She looks long at the first bench, smiles; then controls a tendency to laughter. Then she moves back to THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 37 the second bench and looks at AMES. After this contemplation she speaks again in the husky whisper: "Pretty good-lookin' ole bird, if you do snore!" The snoring stops with a little snort. AMES coughs, waking himself. Sud- denly he sits up, dazed, and stares at the girl. She chokes down an increasing tendency to mirth during their scene.) AMES. (Confused) Oh — ah, how d'ya do ! THE GIRL (FLORENCE). Sh! Don't wake Aunt Isabel. (After this they both speak in husky whif- pers.) AMES. Who? THE GIRL. My aunt. (She gestures widely to Miss STUART.) My Aunt Isabel! Don't you know her? AMES. (Rises and looks at Miss STUART) Yes, indeed ! THE GIRL. Well, I should think so! I'm her niece, Florence. AMES. (Conventionally, but in a whisper) I'm glad to uh (Shakes hands.) FLORENCE. A man and I've been all night tryin' to get here in a car. He's back in the woods with it now, tryin' to get it out of a mud-hole. We've had a hell of a night ! AMES. I beg your pardon ? FLORENCE. It really was. Are you an old friend of hers? AMES. I — hope to be. (Rubbing his face and eyes with his hands.) FLORENCE. We'll take you with us when he gets the car out of the mud. No use to wake her up till it comes. AMES. No. It's cold, isn't it? FLORENCE. (Pointing to the stove) You might make the fire up if you can do it without waking her. 38 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. I only need to turn the draft. I got up about two o'clock and put on some coal. FLORENCE. (As he moves toward the stove) Ciga- rette? AMES. What? FLORENCE. Got a cigarette? AMES. Oh! (He hands her his case; she takes one.) FLORENCE. Light ? (He lights a match and holds it for her. She smiles at him with brazen coquetry, her hand on his as she lights the cigarette from the match.) She makes a fuss about my smoking. Don't tell her, will you? (She smiles again, her face not far from his; he looks thoughtful.) AMES. No. (The fire begins to pick up. FLOR- ENCE turns to AMES suddenly.) FLORENCE. How long you known her? AMES. What? FLORENCE. (Emphasizing her whisper) How long have you known my Aunt Isabel? AMES. Yesterday ! FLORENCE. (She is suddenly overcome with mirth. She lifts both hands in a gesture of "Oh, go 'way!" and choking with laughter, slaps him with her two palms upon the shoulders. She is unable to control herself; she convulses, leaning against him, then clap- ping both hands over her mouth, runs spluttering to up right. At the door she checks herself, speaks back to him huskily) I'll see if he's got the car out the mud! (Laughter breaks from her as she runs out of the door, up right.) ( . \ \i ES is bothered and a little fascinated. He glances at ISABEL, then goes slowly to the door up right; looks out. He comes down; goes near the stove and stands, frowning thoughtfully. ISABEL mur- murs, she opens her eyes; they fall upon AMES THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 39 without expression. Then she smiles slowly and speaks.) ISABEL. I'm awake. AMES. (Starts) Good morning! ISABEL. Good morning. What time is it? AMES. It's daylight. Did you — ah — sleep well? ISABEL. Yes. Did you? AMES. Yes. I did. ISABEL. I was trying to stay asleep, but I thought Was the Station-Master here just now? AMES. No ; it was your niece. ISABEL. What? (She stretches her hand to him; he comes quickly and takes her hand. She rises) You don't mean it! AMES. Somehow she found you were here. She's been all night trying to get a car here, she said. ISABEL. Why, the dear thing ! Where'd she go ? AMES. (Moving toward the door up right with her) She went to see if (The door is flung open by FLORENCE, returning.) FLORENCE. It's coming ! (Comes down right.) ISABEL. Florence! How'd you find me? (They go to each other and embrace.) FLORENCE. We telephoned all over the world, where the wires weren't down, and this was the only place you could be ! ISABEL. Florence, this is Mr. Ames. FLORENCE. (Gaily) Right-o! We've had quite a chat ! We'd better take him home with us, hadn't we? (Goes back of first bench to center.) ISABEL. (Turning to AMES with a little tremulous self -consciousness at which she smiles herself) Will you? AMES. (Embarrassed) Ah — you're very kind — FLORENCE. (Breezily) Why, of course we're not going to leave you here ! It's only a forty-mile drive 40 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS and we won't get stuck by daylight. You'll never see breakfast in this hole ! AMES. Well, as you're so kind FLORENCE. Of course you're coming! We'll make him, won't we, Aunt Isabel? ISABEL. (A little coldly) I hope so. AMES. (Awkwardly, to FLORENCE) Well, since you're so hospitable FLORENCE. (She slaps him on shoulder) Hos- pitable nothing! We don't see a new man-person twice a year in our neck o' the woods, except Johnnie White, and we're used to him! I made the poor kid drive me, Aunt Isabel. (She runs to the door and calls out, "Yay, Johnnie!") ISABEL. "Brazen hussies in boys' breeches"- wasn't that what you called them ? AMES. (Nervously) Oh, but she's different — she's your niece ISABEL. Yes, my great-niece. AMES. What? I beg your pardon ISABEL. (Calmly) I forgot to tell you, she isn't my niece precisely — she's my great-niece. Florence's father wasn't AMES. (Rather dazed, but trying to conceal it) Your — she's your great-meet"? Oh, yes (A young man appears in the doorway with FLORENCE. FLORENCE enters first and goes back of first bench to center, looking at AMES.J ISABEL. Come in, Johnnie ! (He does so. He is a boy of about twenty, dressed for motoring and heavily stained with mud and grease; he carries a woman's fur coat over his arm. He smiles vaguely as he comes to take ISABEL'S hand. She goes on) It was lovely of you to drive all night through the mud to find me. JOHNNIE. (Grinning vaguely) Well, Florence wanted me to ISABEL. And we all do what Florence wants ; yes. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 41 This is Mr. Ames, Mr. White. ( (JOHNNIE goes to center behind first bench, tosses coat to FLORENCE, and shakes hands as she goes on.) If you'll help us get our bags in the car JOHNNIE. Yes, indeed. (He picks up the bags, getting both arms full. FLORENCE, with a sweet smile, gives the coat to AMES to hold for her.) ISABEL. (Continuing smilingly) We ought to be home by seven : and there'll be food, Mr. Ames ! Won't that be (She checks herself as she sees the care with which he is putting FLORENCE into her coat, and goes to JOHNNIE, left center. She hands him her own coat, still smiling.) Johnnie, dear, if you'll (JOHNNIE drops bags and holds coat for ISABEL.) JOHNNIE. (Politely) Yes, indeed, Miss Stuart. FLORENCE. (To AMES, right center) I think you're a rogue ! AMES. (Laughing consciously and rather uncom- fortable) What nonsense! ISABEL. Now, if we can get the things into the car (JOHNNIE and AMES pick up the bags and lunch basket; AMES gets into his overcoat. ISABEL goes on) I think you'll have to let me sit by you, Johnnie, going home. I think you'll drive better. JOHNNIE. (A little blankly) Yes'm. Glad to have you. ISABEL. Are we all ready? JOHNNIE. (Going out up right with bags) Yes'm. FLORENCE. (To AMES) D'you think you can en- tertain me for forty miles ? / do ! (She runs out.) AMES. (Right center) This is very kind of you to take me in, this way — I — ah — are you coming? ISABEL. (Left center, starts as if to go out, then stops and looks about her wistfully, yet smiling a little) I just wanted to remember what this room looks like — by daylight. Things change so then. (She takes his arm and starts up left.) I'll take your 42 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS arm just till we get to the car ; then you'll have Flor- ence. (As they go slowly up she continues cheer- fully) Yes — I forgot to mention it last night; yes, she's my great-niece. It wasn't her father who was my brother, you see AMES. (Feebly) It wasn't? ISABEL. (Cheerfully, as they reach a point near the door and pause) No. It was her grandfather. (ISABEL takes a last rather wistfully smiling look about the room as she speaks — a little absently.) AMES. (Trying not to speak feebly) Her grand- father was ? FLORENCE. (Enters door. Takes AMES' arm with both of her hands) Aren't you coming ? You're go- ing to sit with me, you know. AMES. Well, I (He is rather bewildered and FLORENCE pulls him out through door. JOHNNIE enters door and offers his arm to ISABEL.J ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. (Both exit.) CURTAIN ACT II An interior — a "living room" and "sun-room" com- bined— of the house at Miss STUART'S farm. It is a cheerful apartment in imaginative but quiet taste. The sun-room does not so much open out of the liv- ing-room as form a part of it — the upper part — as an ample sort of alcove. Very simple pilasters against the living-room wall, up right and up left, mark the lower corners of the sun-room, giving the opening somewhat the effect of a very wide doorway or entrance. From each of these, the sun-room walls (which consist principally of French windows) extend a little distance up; and the living-room walls extend to right and to left, thence down to front. Two of the French windows of the sun-room are practicable doors, one up right and one up left. The back of the sun-room consists mainly of three French windows, through which there is a glimpse of trees fust coming into young April leaf. This is only a glimpse, however, as the windows (which are all oblong, and without "half-moons" or arches at the top) are prettily curtained with figured or embroidered linen. The woodwork of the sun-room is apple green. The living-room 'walls are done in a rather warm shade of tan; there is a fireplace with a Tod- hunter type of simple mantel, right center; and over it on the wall, a large old-fashioned mir- ror with gilt frame. Opposite the fireplace, left, are double doors. There is a phonograph in the 43 44 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS sun-room, up right, the view of which is ob- scured by plants, and there is a "baby-grand" piano in the corner of the living room up left, a closed cabinet stands against the up right wall of the living room, opposite the piano. The fur- niture is all comfortable, pleasant to the eye and not new; blue-figured chintzes and easy up- holstery. There is a short blue velvet "daven- port" or sofa, right center, near the fireplace, and at its right elbow a very dark green console table. There is a wire flower stand with potted flowers up center in the sun-room, two old-fashioned chairs, and a rag carpet medallion on the floor. There are side-lights, in both living room and sun-room, with shaded bulbs. There are some sprays of apple-blossoms in a jar on the piano. The morning sunshine is bright outside the sun-room windows, and the place is cheerful, but not eye- murdering, with light. The fire is burning, left, and facing it is an "old lady," for she is unde- niably both; and with her cap, and old-fashioned gown, rather suggests Whistler's portrait of his mother. She is dainty, but rather fretful. A youngish middle-aged man, on his knees, is rub- bing the hearth and brass fender with a rag. He is a house-servant in working-clothes; wearing a great old blue apron, his dark trousers and waistcoat; his shirt-sleeves are rolled up and he has omitted a collar and tie. The old lady is FLORENCE'S aunt, ELLEN. AUNT ELLEN. (In armchair by fireplace. Wish- ing him to continue a narration) Well, and then, after they had their breakfast — HENRY. Well, he went to sleep leanin' on the mantelpiece, and then she had me take him up to bed in the big room. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 45 AUNT ELLEN. Our having a gentleman visitor, it's quite exciting. HENRY. Yes'm. AUNT ELLEN. Is he going to stay over to-night with us? HENRY. No'm. He said he had to get the noon train at Clinton on the main line. I got to drive him over, she says. AUNT ELLEN. Would you consider him a very nice looking gentleman, Henry? HENRY. (Judicially) Well, to me he looks more like a man that's kind o' got somep'tn layin' heavy on his mind — like. AUNT ELLEN. I should think she'd have been dead. HENRY. No'm ; she went over to the empty ten- ant's house in the buckboard. AUNT ELLEN. She's a very remarkable woman, Henry. (She says this slowly and with a kind of placid emphasis, as if she has said it, to the same lis- tener, many times before.) HENRY. (Placidly) Yes, Miss Ellen. (FLOR- ENCE is heard outside, off up right.) FLORENCE. (Off) Henry! Hen-er-y! Whoa, there ! HENRY. (Crosses to center) It's Miss Florence ; she went off horseback for her sleep. (FLORENCE enters up right. She is dressed in riding-clothes: breeches, boots, waist, a short coat, and a dark straw hat; she has a riding crop in her hand. Yet there is a daintiness about her.) FLORENCE. (As she enters) Henry, don't you want to ride Tim down to the barn for me ? HENRY. (Going up obediently) Yes'm. FLORENCE. (Coming down) H'lo, Aunt Ellen! (HENRY exits up right.) Had your breakfast? Where's Mr. Ames ? (She flings herself in a chair right of table left with one knee over its arm.) 46 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AUNT ELLEN. (Frowning at the posture) I haven't met him. Henry tells me he's resting. FLORENCE. Poor thing! He's a right natty ole berry, though, Aunt Ellen. AUNT ELLEN. (Shuddering slightly) Won't you some time speak English, Florence? FLORENCE. (Lightly) None o' my friends'd un- derstand me if I did. (FLORENCE is always lighter than she is rough; and her tone of voice is prettier than the words she says. An electric bell rings faintly off left.) That's Johnnie ; I told him to clean up and come over and shoot some tennis. AUNT ELLEN. (Frowning) When were you last in bed, Florence? FLORENCE. When d'you think I was ? Why, night before last. (She giggles.) Same as Aunt Isabel! AUNT ELLEN. (Coldly) We won't discuss FLORENCE. (With a suppressed chuckle) No; I guess we better not ! AUNT ELLEN. But you, after being out in an au- tomobile all night with this young Mr. White FLORENCE. (Severely) Hunting Aunt Isabel! (She goes on at once with amused slyness.) What do you think of Aunt Isabel's conduct, Aunt Ellen ? AUNT ELLEN. (Primly) I've told you I never discuss Aunt Isabel. (One of the double doors, left, opens and a middle- aged woman steps in. She is neat and respon- sible looking; but more of the housekeeper type than a "maid" ; her name is MATTIE. She speaks immediately.) MATTIE. It's Mr. White. FLORENCE. (Not rising, turns her head and calls loudly toward the door) Come on in, Johnnie ! AUNT ELLEN. (Annoyed) Florence, please ! FLORENCE. If Aunt Isabel can't reform me, you THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 47 can't, Aunt Ellen. (Calling again.) Johnnie! Come ahead in! ( JOHNNIE enters left, passing MAT- TIE, who goes out left at once, closing the door. JOHNNIE wears an old Norfolk jacket, a flannel shirt, white flannel trousers, and tennis shoes. He carries a racket in a shabby case under his arm and has a cap in his hand. He speaks in a grieved tone as he enters.) JOHNNIE. You said you'd be ready for Howdy do, Miss Ellen (This is a brief paren- thesis to AUNT ELLEN, and he goes on immediately to FLORENCE) You expect to shoot tennis in boots ? FLORENCE. (Rising) Oh, I'll change. You pretty near dead for sleep ? JOHNNIE. (Incredulously) Me? Bet you are! FLORENCE. (Carelessly) I'll bet you ten dollars I can go till day after to-morrow ! JOHNNIE. Never close your eyes? FLORENCE. Yes, nor my mouth, either! (Goes up center.) JOHNNIE. (Grimly) /lose! FLORENCE. I'll show you how sleepy / am ! (She is at the victrola in the sun-room and as she speaks she releases a lively dance record, and turns down, extending her arms.) AUNT ELLEN. (Crossly) Florence! Do you have to dance all the time ? FLORENCE. (Seizing upon JOHNNIE) Absolutely ! Come on! (They begin to dance a very modern dance.) AUNT ELLEN. And that poor gentleman trying to get some rest upstairs! FLORENCE. It's time for the ole kid to come down. I want to talk some more to him! JOHNNIE. (As they go on dancing) Done up, was he? Well, take men that age, they can't do as much as if 48 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS FLORENCE. No ; Think he's some three-year-old ? That was a pretty rough trip we brought him. JOHNNIE. Hark ! I believe you'd flirt with George Washington if you got a chance! FLORENCE. Hush up and get off my foot ! (AUNT ELLEN shudders.) JOHNNIE. (Plaintive) Your Aunt Isabel was listenin' to you the whole way, too ! She didn't look to me as if she thought much of your style, either! FLORENCE. Can't you dance without talkin'? What you think this is : a Chautauqua ? AUNT ELLEN. (She has put on a pince-nez and looks at them sourly over her shoulder) It certainly isn't dancing, is it? (She is plaintively severe.) FLORENCE. I never could remember, Aunt Ellen : Was it you or grandma that walked a minuet with Alexander Hamilton? AUNT ELLEN. (Angrily) It was my great-grand- mother ! FLORENCE. I guess she'd have been shocked enough if she'd ever seen you dancing when you were young? AUNT ELLEN. (Rising angrily) Shocked at my dancing? At the waltz f The polka! The schot- tischef FLORENCE. Oh, don't get so upset! (She is a little irritated and speaks flippantly, but she keeps on dancing.) AUNT ELLEN. (Sharply) Shame on you ! FLORENCE. (Hotly) What for? AUNT ELLEN. (Rapidly) To dance yourself, in that manner, and say anyone would be shocked at my dancing, and for saying I might have danced with Alexander Hamilton ! FLORENCE. (Giggling) Why? Wasn't he nice? AUNT ELLEN. Shame! FLORENCE. Oh, do sit down! (It is a tiff, and they speak sharply and quickly.) THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 49 AUNT ELLEN. (Trembling) Indeed, I shall not ! FLORENCE. Stand up, then! Gosh! AUNT ELLEN. I will retire from the room ! (Go- ing left.) FLORENCE. Oh, I apologize. Golly! (HENRY enters up right, leaving the door open.) HENRY. (As he enters) She's back. FLORENCE. (With gloomy scorn, to AUNT ELLEN) Now I s'pose you'll tell her all about it ! AUNT ELLEN. (Quickly, but with over-dignity) I shall not. Excuse me ! (Exits left.) FLORENCE. Oh, my ! (She flings herself in a chair right of table left.) I wish JOHNNIE. (Looking off up right and gloomily nodding in that direction to check FLORENCE, who is about to continue speaking) Hark! You better hush up 'f you don't want her to (He means: if FLORENCE doesn't want ISABEL to perceive that there's been a row. FLORENCE checks herself. JOHNNIE goes to left of table.) ISABEL. (Outside, up right) Henry? HENRY. (Right center) I'm waitin'. (ISABEL enters cheerfully up right in the sun-room. She wears a driving-coat over her dress, driv- ing-gloves, and a "pretty little hat." As she comes in, her air is brisk, as of one fresh from driving on a cool morning, and she speaks as she comes down.) ISABEL. (Center. Beginning to HENRY, inter- rupting herself to greet JOHNNIE, and then reverting to HENRY) Henry — howdy do, Johnnie White — Henry, I want you to drive Mr. Ames to the train. HENRY. Yes'm, you awready told me. ISABEL. Let him know in plenty of time to start — but — well, not too much time. Not so that he'll have to wait a long while at the station. (With a signifi- 50 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS cance of her own thought that AMES has had a great deal of station-waiting lately.) HENRY. No'm. (Exit up left.) ISABEL. (She turns to FLORENCE as HENRY goes out up right. FLORENCE'S attitude and look are of a brooding sort. ISABEL'S glance rests momentarily upon her, but she speaks to JOHNNIE) Johnnie White, why is this lady so gloomy? (JOHNNIE shakes his head briefly.) What's the matter? (To FLORENCE) Where's your Aunt Ellen? Hasn't she come down yet? FLORENCE. (With rueful sulkiness) Oh, yes ; she was here ! ISABEL. (Comprehending cheerfully) Oh, I see. What was it about? FLORENCE. She didn't like it because Why, I was only makin' fun of old- fashioned dancing. Everything old-fashioned is so funny. ISABEL. (Center) Isn't it ! I used to say that to my grandmother. Did you apologize ? FLORENCE. Yes. I did. ISABEL. Did you say, "I apologize golly"? JOHNNIE. (Surprised) Why, Miss Stuart ! How'd you guess Florence said that ? ISABEL. (Back of FLORENCE) When you live with 'em, Johnnie, you get to know their habits. Do you know what she's thinking now? (She puts her hand on FLORENCE'S shoulder, FLORENCE still being seated.) JOHNNIE. (Shaking his head) No'm; I certainly don't. ISABEL. She's wondering why people are always so queer when they get older. JOHNNIE. (With slightly sour significance) Well, she might ask Mr. Ames about that. He must be anyway pretty near something way long over thirty or something, isn't he, Miss Stuart? ISABEL. Yes, I'm afraid he must be almost that THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 51 near the end! But still I rather doubt if she will ask Mr. Ames about it, Johnnie. No ; hardly. (She crosses center. Smiling to him as he grins in rueful comprehension. ) FLORENCE. Oh, I like old men. (She comes out of her brooding fit as she rises.) Don't you think Mr. Ames is terribly intriguing? (Seriously and quickly.) ISABEL. "Intriguing?" No, I think he seems hon- est— well, quite honest, at least ! FLORENCE. But he has such a distinguished-look- ing face. ISABEL. Well, he has an uncle who's distinguished ; that is, he's always spoken of as remarkable because he plays polo at sixty-six. The uncle, I mean, Flor- ence, of course. FLORENCE. This man's a man that really interests me. I think from his looks he has the power to think. (Severely) Very few people have the power to think in this world, you know, Aunt Isabel. ISABEL. (Back of table) Oh, yes; fewer and fewer every day ! It's quite natural for (Turn- ing unexpectedly to JOHNNIE.) Have you the power to think, Johnnie White? JOHNNIE. No'm. You know what she means, don't you ? FLORENCE. (Coldly, absently) Never mind. ISABEL. (In an impressed whisper, to JOHNNIE) She's thinking. (Crosses center.) FLORENCE. Aunt Isabel, I really would like him to stay over a day\or so. ISABEL. He said he had to go on to New York at noon. I'm afraid he made quite a point of it. FLORENCE. (Rises and crosses center) Oh, well, you know men always can stay if they want to. ISABEL. That's why it's better not to urge them ; they may only make it clearer they don't want to. 52 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS FLORENCE. (At the door) Oh, Mr. Ames might change his mind — later. (Crosses to door, left.) ISABEL. Before you begin with that, dear, could you please first go and apologize to your Aunt Ellen ? FLORENCE. Oh, all right. (Moodily.) ISABEL. (By the fireplace) Try it without a golly ! FLORENCE. All right, I'll go and kid her to death. (Exit left.) ISABEL. (Turns to JOHNNIE, sitting on sofa, right) Don't you seem to "intrigue" Florence at all, John- nie? JOHNNIE. No'm. She just takes a notion. (He crosses to center.) ISABEL. You mean she just gets this way. JOHNNIE. Yes'm; when there's somebody around she's fixin' to make 'em get mush over her. You've noticed that, haven't you, Miss Stuart ? ISABEL. I fancy I may have, just possibly ! JOHNNIE. Then she rubs that power-to-think busi- ness all over m-e, because the faculty found out I wasn't intellectual or something, so I had to aban- don my college career. (He is very serious.) ISABEL. (Sitting on the sofa and concealing a ten- dency to laugh) Come on. I see you want to say something more to me. JOHNNIE. (Swallowing. Sits on sofa left of Miss STUART,) Yes'm. Miss Stuart, you're a woman that's had a good many men go mush over you ; so with your experience, why, the truth is, I may not have all the brains in the world, but she hasn't, either, but she gets these fits when she thinks she has; and what I want to say is simply: why, you know how it is, when there's some new man around, she treats me more like some door-mat than a person. ISABEL. I understand you perfectly, Johnnie. Go ahead. JOHNNIE. I just wanted to say so because you've THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 53 had prob'ly more experience of life than I've had, no doubt. ISABEL. How long do you expect to feel this way about her, Johnnie ? JOHNNIE. (Swallowing) Well, if everything turns out all right — though it don't look so much like it right now, but if it does, and she finds out I'm her — her — well, her real mate, as it were, why, I expect to go on and on with her — and on and on — and on and (He seems to be going on, though slowing down.) ISABEL. "On and on and on" — until you're just any age — oh, twenty-eight or even twenty-nine, maybe ? JOHNNIE. Yes'm. Indefinitely. ISABEL. Suppose you were — past thirty, Johnnie. Suppose, like Mr. Ames, you were even — well, what- ever age we'll say Mr. Ames is. JOHNNIE. (Slightly amused and incredulous) What age — me ? I guess prob'ly I'd be sittin' around somewhere, if I was alive. ISABEL. But you'd still like Florence to be about nineteen, wouldn't you? JOHNNIE. Well, about the way she looks now, yes'm. That's a good deal why I like her: the way she looks. ISABEL. (Smiling) It isn't fair, is it ? JOHNNIE. Ma'am? ISABEL. You see, when you're twenty you like us to be nineteen, and when you're fifty you're apt to like us to be nineteen ! Well, we can't manage it, you see ! We can't stay nineteen, much as we want to please you! JOHNNIE. (Smiles) Oh, well, I guess I'd feel just the same about Florence if she was a thousand. ISABEL. (Looking at him quickly) Would you? If she were a thousand? 54 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS JOHNNIE. (Laughing a little ruefully) I guess I would ! (As if he'd probably have to.) ISABEL. You think so? JOHNNIE. (Becoming serious) Well, if I did, I guess then she'd know what sort of a man I am. ISABEL. (Thoughtfully and rather slowly) Yes ; she ought to ! JOHNNIE. (Going on) And she'd see how I really feel about her. ISABEL. (Smiling quickly) Yes; so she would! It's quite an idea ! (Rises.) JOHNNIE. (Rises) 'Course I don't think any- thing'll come o' the way she acts over this Mr. Ames. For one thing, I b'lieve he'd have too much sense. ISABEL. Do you ? You can never be sure of that, Johnnie ! JOHNNSE. Well, she begged him a lot to stay over till to-morrow and he said he couldn't; just like he did when you asked him, Miss Stuart. ISABEL. Yes, that looks intelligent of him, if he sticks to it and goes. JOHNNIE. And, anyhow, he only said one personal thing to her all the time, and it was a kind of a joke. ISABEL. (Quickly) He did say a personal thing to her? JOHNNIE. It was when you went to hurry the cook with breakfast. Mr. Ames asked Florence — oh, well, it wasn't so frightful "personal." ISABEL. What was it, Johnnie? JOHNNIE. Well, she said she s'posed she'd be as old as her grandfather before she got any breakfast and he asked her if she knew how old her grand- father was. ISABEL. He did? He asked her that? What did she tell him? JOHNNIE. She didn't know. (Anxiously) Do you think that was pretty personal ? I don't see — ISABEL. (Crosses center) Why, yes; I believe I THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 55 do. I believe I think it was quite "personal" indeed — asking her how old her grandfather was ! (MATTIE enters, left.) ISABEL. (Quickly on her entrance) What is it? MATTIE. The gentleman. I heard him stirrin' round; you said to let you know. ISABEL. (Rather eagerly) Yes ? MATTIE. I think he's comin' down. ISABEL. (Going toward her quickly) Mattie, it seems to me you told me once you didn't think this was a becoming hat. MATTIE. No'm. You ast me, and I says I never could like it on you, ma'am. ISABEL. Good gracious! You might be right! (She hurries away up through the sun-room and off up left.) JOHNNIE. Didn't hear Miss Florence stirrin' around or anything, did you ? MATTIE. (With a glance toward where ISABEL de- parted) Yes, sir. She's changin' her things — again — too! (Going to exit left.) JOHNNIE. (Rather sharply as she opens the door) Will you ask her how long she thinks I (He is checked by an approach seen through the open door; mutters, "Oh!" and turns right. AMES enters right, passing MATTIE, who waits for him to pass; then exit right. AMES has changed his clothes for tweeds; he looks freshened but preoccupied.) AMES. (In greeting) Ah — Mr. White? Haven't you been to bed at all ? JOHNNIE. (Smiling) No. J'y°u £et rested up some ? (They shake hands.) AMES. (Crossing to the fire, right) Oh, yes; quite a little. I suppose our two — ah — comrades — aren't down yet. Miss Stuart must be pretty much exhausted, I'm afraid. 56 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS JOHNNIE. She doesn't act like it. Right after you went up to bed she drove off to one of her farms on business. (Sits right of table left.) AMES. She did? JOHNNIE. (Casually; not boasting for her) Driv- in' herself in a buckboard. AMES. Why, I declare! JOHNNIE. Oh, Miss Stuart's considered a pretty remarkable woman, you know. AMES. (Struck by this, frowns somewhat thought- fully) She is. She's considered — remarkable? JOHNNIE. (Shaking his head, seriously) Yes, indeed! She's the most remarkable of her family. AMES. (Thoughtful) I feel myself rather at a loss; I seem to be here so — so unexpectedly, as it were — and such a — a stranger. I'm rather — ah — confused about the family. Miss Stuart's father and mother, I take it, aren't living? JOHNNIE. Golly, no ! I dunno when they died ! AMES. (Set back a little) A considerable time ago, I suppose. JOHNNIE. Well, yes! Must 'a' been! AMES. (Rather wistfully, yet trying to sound careless and casual) You don't remember them, I take it? JOHNNIE. (Carelessly) Me? Golly, no! AMES. Ah — the present family, then JOHNNIE. It's just Miss Stuart and Miss Ellen Stuart and Florence. AMES. Miss Ellen Stuart I haven't met. (Sits on sofa.) JOHNNIE. She's Florence's aunt. AMES. Her aunt? JOHNNIE. Yes, I always get mixed up on rela- tions, too. (He sits on the small of his back, cross- ing his legs; and decides to try a wicked shot.) I don't know how old my grandfather was when he died, any more'n Florence did hers ! THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 57 AMES. (Unconscious of the effort just made) It seems to me that last night Miss Stuart spoke of two orphan nieces she was bringing up. JOHNNIE. Bringin' up? Florence is one, but Miss Stuart couldn't 'a' meant she was bringin' Miss Ellen up. She's about a hundred — or a hundred and ten, maybe ! Anyhow, she must be around sixty. AMES. I must have been mistaken. Then there are just these three ladies in the family? JOHNNIE. Three's all. They do need a man around. AMES. Uh — yes. It would — ah — seem so. (They look at each other with some coldness. FLORENCE is heard singing off left.) JOHNNIE. This un comin' needs more'n one the way she acts — lately ! (FLORENCE enters, left, singing till she gets into the room, then she stops suddenly. She wears a most becoming tennis costume, but accompanies it with ivhite high-heeled slippers. She has a pair of white tennis shoes in one hand, and a racquet and a net bag of tennis balls in the other. There are five or six balls, not all new. AMES rises and goes a little to right.) FLORENCE. (Crosses to center, back of table. To AMES) Oh! You're here, too ! JOHNNIE. (Muttering ironically, not moving) So'm I here, too ! AMES. (Gallantly) I'm glad you didn't know it, if that's why you kept on singing. FLORENCE. (Going over to him) I told you in the car you were a quick worker! (She doesn't smile.) I've taken a frightful fancy to you! JOHNNIE. (Before AMES can speak) One of the mail service aviators had to land in their back meadow 58 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS here, last month. She pulled that on him before his wheels touched ground. FLORENCE. I didn't! JOHNNIE. (Placidly stubborn) You did. You had to holler to make him hear it ! FLORENCE. (Turning seriously to AMES for sym- pathy) These boys, nowadays, they think life's noth- ing but jazz. In this life people meet a girl, but so often they don't see she prob'ly has thoughts other people couldn't think! I have to lead two lives: one outdoors with mere adolescents, but the other — that's a life apart. You understand what I mean, don't you? AMES. (Smiling) I think so. FLORENCE. I thought you would. That's why you intrigue me so. (Softly) You're a great kid ! (She slaps him on arm.) JOHNNIE. Oh, listen ! (FLORENCE glances at him.) FLORENCE. Mr. Ames, don't you believe that very few people in this life have the power to really think? JOHNNIE. (Sliding to the floor from his chair) Oo-ooh, Mike ! FLORENCE. (Annoyed, turning) Cut the rough stuff, you caterpillar. (Her tone is severe but quiet.) JOHNNIE. (Rising to his knees and seeming to paddle with his racquet at the tennis shoes in her hand) You goin' to wear four shoes at the same time, centipede? FLORENCE. (Sitting) I never can bear to put flat shoes on till the last minute. And then (She removes one slipper.) It's so troublesome gettin' Jem on AMES. May I help you? FLORENCE. Oh, if you would JOHNNIE. (Embittered, up center) Oh! That's why you brought 'em ! I see! FLORENCE. (Giving him a cold quick glance, but THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 59 speaking to AMES. He kneels before her.) It's out- rageous of me to let you take so much trouble! (Then leaning toward him, she speaks softly.) JOHNNIE. Oh, my ! (He goes out of the picture, stepping out up right.) FLORENCE. (Softly) Mr. Ames, please stay over till to-morrow. / ask you to. AMES. You're very kind. I couldn't let your aunt think I'm so vacillating. You see, I told her I had to be in New York this evening. FLORENCE. But you just said you had to go, didn't you ? — because you wanted to be polite about making an unexpected visit? AMES. (Laughing) Yes; something like that. But after telling your aunt that I couldn't stay FLORENCE. But aren't there any reasons you'd like to stay? AMES. (Thoughtfully) Yes, there are. FLORENCE. Then I'll fix it for you. I'll say you sent a wire to New York letting 'em know you reached here, and I'll write a message on one of our telegraph blanks to you. It'll be the answer from New York telling you there isn't any reason for you to leave. (She is pleased with her idea.) AMES. (Laughing, but a little nervous over her idea) Oh, no! FLORENCE. I will! I'll have a man bring it in. Don't you spoil it. AMES. I couldn't FLORENCE. Yes, you could ! And when my tele- gram comes, if you give me away (She is in- terrupted by JOHNNIE'S return. JOHNNIE has been just beyond the threshold up right, looking off out- doors, and now comes in and down a few steps.) JOHNNIE. I got it! FLORENCE. (She checks AMES, who is about to ex-pound his protest ) Hush! (To JOHNNIE) You got what? 60 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS JOHNNIE. Got a wish I just made. (He points to door up left, then daps his hand over his mouth as if undesirous the lady entering should hear him; he is facing that way. ISABEL enters up left in the sun-room. She has taken off her hat and coat; is in a very pretty morning dress, and carries some "work" in her hand; a "work bag." She comes in looking at JOHNNIE, who has his hand over his mouth.) ISABEL. What's the matter, Johnnie White ? (He jerks his head toward AMES and FLORENCE, who are down right center. For an instant ISABEL lets it be seen that she is the least bit taken aback.) Oh ! (She immediately smiles, as if pleased.) Oh ! (She comes down as she speaks.) Your shoes are too — large again, dear? (The slightest check before "large") AMES. (Looking up at ISABEL with a little em- barrassment) Ah — she — I was helping her to — ah — change. ISABEL. (Smiling) You were? AMES. That is, I am. She mentioned some dif- ficulty in — ah — doing it herself, and I ISABEL. (Sunnily) I should think you would ! Who wouldn't ? And who wouldn't make it as long as possible, too ! (She turns to a chair, left center j AMES. (Rising) It's — ah — done. (As he has taken off FLORENCE'S second slipper he has uncon- sciously put it under his arm,, where it still is.) ISABEL. Is it? Already? JOHNNIE. (Sharply, to FLORENCE) Cm' on, here! FLORENCE. All right, I'm coming. What's the hurry? JOHNNIE. (FLORENCE goes up as he speaks. JOHNNIE has gone down to the sofa she has occu- pied, and has picked up the bag of tennis balls. He immediately goes up, after FLORENCE. He calls out.) Go ahead ! (All in a breath.) Betcha dollar I beat THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 61 you t' the tennis court ! (Both rush for the door up right. He swings her back up right. FLORENCE strikes at him with her racket.) FLORENCE. (Giggling as she runs after him) No fair, you got a start ! (ISABEL is looking at AMES, who is standing, still in some embarrassment, near the fireplace, uncon- scious of the slipper under his arm; he is look- ing tip at the departing couple. The other slipper is on the seat of FLORENCE'S chair.) ISABEL. Aren't they extraordinary, Mr. Ames? (AMES turns.) Aren't they extraordinary, these young things! Not tidy, though. She's left her slippers on the sofa. (Glancing at the slipper, then again at him; she begins to sew some lace into cam- bric.) AMES. (Still embarrassed and not catching this) It seems to me you're rather extraordinary yourself, my dear — (He pauses an instant, then hastily adds) — lady. (So that his phrase is "my dear lady") ISABEL. (As if a little suspiciously) I ? Do you think so ? In what way ? AMES. Sleeping a few hours on a wooden bench, motoring forty miles of mud hills, then driving off in a buckboard instead of collapsing! ISABEL. (Looking at him) Oh, a country life keeps people quite robust. It's "remarkable" ! (Then looking at her work.) As I said, though, I'm afraid Florence is untidy, sometimes. (With a little ges- ture toward the slipper.) You see where she's left that pair of slippers. AMES. (Glancing at it absently) Pair? Ah — there's only one. ISABEL. (Bending her head over her work) So ? Could you find the other ? (Sits right of table left.) AMES. Oh, certainly. (He glances absently about, 62 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS then realizes, -with a start, that the slipper is tinder his arm; she seems oblivious of everything except her lace-making. He hastily puts the slipper under the chair; straightens up and looks at her again. She seems as before. He stoops, looking about.) Ah — I think it's under the — Oh, yes. Here it is. (He puts it with the other one and comes to center.) ISABEL. Will you set them on the hearth, please ? AMES. Certainly. ISABEL. (With a matter-of-fact amiability) Then it'll be easy to find them if she comes back soon to have them put on again. AMES. Oh, ye (He begins to say, "Oh, yes," but checks himself uncomfortably. He places shoes at fireplace, then goes to right center — and is con- scious of them as rather damnatory; and a pause fol- lows in which he glances back and down at them] twice.) ISABEL. I'm sorry you felt you couldn't stay over till to-morrow, but since you insisted you couldn't — (Inquiringly, as if giving him a chance to alter his mind.) AMES. I — I'm afraid I ought to get back. ISABEL. (With a submissive nod, regretting) Very well. I've arranged for you to go. AMES. Ah— thank you. (Moving toward her.) Ah Is that lace you are making ? ISABEL. Do you like it? AMES. (Putting on a pair of glasses, rather hastily looking at the lace and, as hastily, slipping the glasses back into his waistcoat pocket again as he speaks) It's very lovely — yes. You must have remarkable eyes to do that. ISABEL. (After a look at him) Yes, my eyes are quite good. (Using "quite" to mean "rather" as eld- erly people speak of pleasant faculties still remain- ing.) AMES. Is it a — what they call a doyley? THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 63 ISABEL. (Glancing at him thoughtfully) I won- der if I oughtn't to make a little — cap — of it. AMES. (Perplexed) A cap? ISABEL. Don't you think it's a pretty fashion — a lace cap on the head? AMES. You mean like the Breton peasant women ? ISABEL. No ; I was thinking of our grandmothers. AMES. But — ah ISABEL. (Letting it touch her hair a moment) Would you — like me in it? (Her tone is entirely "natural" as if she considered the possibility seri- ously.) AMES. (Trying not to be at all flustered) Of course I should — like you — in anything. ISABEL. Are you sure you would ? AMES. Why, how can you ask me? ISABEL. (Working) As sure as you were last night ? AMES. Yes, indeed. ISABEL. And you would like me in a cap? AMES. Well, wouldn't it seem a little ISABEL. Do you mean you think it would seem a little — premature ? AMES. Decidedly, I (Breathlessly correcting himself.) Of course it would. I meant (Goes back of table to left.) ISABEL. You mustn't flatter me too much. AMES. (With almost plaintive inquiry) "Flat- ter" you ? ISABEL. (Smiling) I'll keep off the cap as long as I can. Really, there's no excuse for caps now. I suppose women used to wear 'em because in those days there were so few supplies. AMES. (Blankly) Supplies ? ISABEL. Yes — like imports from Paris. And, be- sides, they didn't approve of 'em, poor things ! AMES. Pardon me. Who didn't approve of what ? ISABEL. Our grandmothers didn't approve of ac- 64 complishing marvels with cosmetics. You know the miracles they do to faces nowadays. AMES. Miracles? (Sits left of table.) ISABEL. It's — remarkable ! No ; there's no excuse for a woman to wear a cap these days — not till she has to just absolutely give up ! (Then at her work.) Don't you think so ? AMES. Oh — oh, yes ! ISABEL. Oh, it's just struck me — (Rises.) I ought to be entertaining you, oughtn't I? But we haven't any family photograph album. AMES. What a lucky family ! ISABEL. I could show you some daguerreotypes, though. Yes — (Rising suddenly upon a thought) — you ought to see some of our heirlooms. (She gives him a fleeting faint smile, and leaving her work on the table, left center, goes to the closed cabinet against the wall up right; opens the doors, and brings forth an old mahogany case. She brings this down to the table, left center, opens it, takes out a folding daguer- reotype.) AMES. (Rather surprised) Daguerreotypes ? ISABEL. (Stands back of table) Yes. We don't show them to every visitor, of course. Sit down. (She hands him the daguerreotype.) There. You like my father ? AMES. (Rather touched, yet rather apprehensive) Is that your father? He must have been a very fine-looking man. Is that a — a stock he's wearing? ISABEL. Yes. I did think stocks were so becom- ing, didn't you? (Handing him another daguerreo- type.) That's my Aunt Margaret, father's sister, at ninety-one. We all live very long on my father's side. AMES. Ah — very intelligent face. ISABEL. Daguerreotypes have a charm, haven't they ? I wonder people stopped taking them. AMES. (Becoming more preoccupied) I don't THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 65 think I ever saw any daguerreotypes taken much after the Civil War. ISABEL. No ; I don't think I have, either. (Hand- ing him another.) That's my Uncle Charles, in his uniform. He was a colonel. AMES. In the — Civil War? ISABEL. Oh, no, in the Mexican War. AMES. (More disturbed, but concealing it fairly well) Ah — he must have been a very fine-looking man. ISABEL. Yes, indeed ! (She smiles as she hands him another.) Here's one of a little girl — that is, a young girl. Does anything about her strike you as — familiar ? AMES. (Looking at her, not at the daguerreotype, and trying to conceal a foreboding) Familiar? ISABEL. Yes. See if you don't guess who it is. AMES. (Vaguely) "Who is it?" (He looks at it; then suddenly looks closer; starts slightly, draws his head back from it, staring incredulously.) ISABEL. Can't you guess who it is? AMES. (Huskily) Why it can't (He looks apprehensively to her and back again with painfully growing conviction.) ISABEL. Wrhy can't it? AMES. Isn't it your — mother? ISABEL. (In a tone that smilingly chides him for being so slow) No-o AMES. (With some plaintiveness) Why, there weren't any taken after — why, it couldn't be ISABEL. (With a little archness) Oh, but this girl — you see, she was only a child, really. AMES. (Feebly trying to be hearty) Oh, yes; that's all she was. I see. She wasn't ISABEL. (Sunnily) No. Not over sixteen or sev- enteen, no. Don't you see any resemblance? AMES. (With a slight struggle) Well, it's charm- ing enough to 66 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS ISABEL. It's a sister of mine. AMES. It is? Your sister? ISABEL. (Musingly) Yes, she was quite a lot older than I am and married a missionary and they were lost in a typhoon. AMES. Oh — I'm sorry. ISABEL. (Reassuringly) Oh, it was quite a time ago. (She smiles and puts the pictures back in the box.) There ! I just wanted to see if you'd see the resemblance : I won't put you through all the others. (She takes up her work and sits again as she speaks.) AMES. (Huskily) Thank you! (Then hurried- ly) Thank you for showing 'em to me ! (He rises, •wipes his forehead hastily, and moves toward the fireplace, taking out his cigarette case.) Thank you. May I smoke here? (She nods.) I — ah — I — ah — (Crosses to console table, right center. Lights ciga- rette.) ISABEL. (Cheerfully and working) Daguerreo- types and things like that bring back such dear old times to us, don't they? AMES. (Unguardedly) I suppose they (Hast- ily) They do, of course! (He takes out two ciga- rettes.) Yes, they do bring them back. (She gives him a glance, and bends over her work. Seated right of table left.) ISABEL. "Where are the snows of yesteryear?" Yes, but where are the yesteryears themselves? "The wind has blown them all away !" Do you re- member when all the young men made "New Year's Calls" and all the girls and their mothers kept "Open House" — those dear jolly old times? AMES. Oh, yes, indeed. I've heard they ISABEL. Even politics seemed simpler then. It was easier when we let men do all that for us, though they did get so many things wrong, poor things ! AMES. Oh, I don't know; we elected Roosevelt, and THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 67 ISABEL. (With a spiritedness, as of patriotic in- dignation) Yes, but if women had voted when Mr. Tilden ran against Hayes — and — Wheeler, you surely don't believe there'd have been all that excitement over the election, do you? AMES. I — I — don't ISABEL. (Earnestly) You know that was a ter- rible thing. AMES. About Tilden and Hayes — and — Wheeler ? ISABEL. Don't you think it was? AMES. Yes, I suppose it (He does not fin- ish, but hastily substitutes:) Oh, yes; it was, of course. ISABEL. My poor father used to get excited over that to the day of his death ! AMES. (Relieved) Oh, your father did ! (Crosses right.) ISABEL. Well, I thought it was wrong, too. (He stares at her, again perplexed; she sews.) AMES. You ah ISABEL. (Casually) What ? AMES. (Apologetically) Nothing. That is; I had nothing in mind to say. (Goes up right.) ISABEL. (Musing, smiling) I suppose my father felt it so much because he knew Mr. Tilden. I never met him. (As if she had met others like him.) But I should like to see Mr. Cleveland's expression if he could see women voting! Or General Harrison's! AMES. General Harrison's expression? Do you mean Harrison who was President — in, ah — eighteen — ah (Goes to right center, back of sofa.) ' ISABEL. Yes ; President Benjamin Harrison. Good gracious! I didn't mean his grandfather, President William Henry Harrison, who was Presi- dent in eighteen- forty or something! AMES. (Hastily, laughing feebly) No, no. I knew you didn't mean him! ISABEL. Well, no! (She sews, and takes up the 68 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS theme as if musing absently.) Most of them used to be Generals before they ran for President, didn't they? AMES. You mean like General Harrison? ISABEL. Yes. General Harrison, General Gar- field AMES. Oh — yes. ISABEL. And most of all, General Grant. AMES. (Feebly) Yes, General Grant. ISABEL. (Laughing absently as she sews) We'd hardly remember him — of course. (She looks up at him as if disquieted by a thought, though she smiles nervously.) You — you never did see him, did you? (As if diplomatically getting at his age.) AMES. General Grant? No. ISABEL. (As if relieved, smiling a little, as if at an absurdity as she looks back at her work) Of course I supposed not. AMES. No. I never did. (She looks up at him innocently, carelessly, then seems to become aware of something unusual in his look at her.) ISABEL. What is it ? AMES. I — ah — nothing ! ISABEL. Oh, yes; I can tell: You're thinking about something that bothers you. At least you looked as if you were puzzling about something. Weren't you? AMES. (Hurriedly) Indeed, I wasn't; not at all! ISABEL. I'm sure you are wondering about some- thing. AMES. No. I'm not. Not about anything at all. (Crosses right to front of sofa.) ISABEL. Yes, but you are. I wonder if I know what you're wondering about. AMES. (Too quickly — sits on sofa) No, you don't. That is, I meant to say you don't, because I'm not, so you couldn't. ISABEL. But I think I do. : THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 69 AMES. Indeed, you're mistaken. I'm not won- dering about anything. Not about anything! ISABEL. Aren't you even wondering anything — about me? AMES. No, no ; certainly not. (Rises.) Nothing at all. That is, I'm not wondering. Of course I'm thinking about y£>u ISABEL. (Quickly) What are you thinking about me? AMES. Nothing. Nothing at all. ISABEL. (Nodding) I see. You're thinking about me, but you aren't thinking anything in particular about me. AMES. Yes. No ! ISABEL. I understand perfectly. AMES. No, but you don't. ISABEL. Yes. You meant yes and no. Didn't you? AMES. Well, I (Crosses back of table to\ left.) ISABEL. Of course you did. That clears it all up, you see; "yes and no." (Smiling.) I'm glad you made it so plain. AMES. (Thoroughly confused and rather dis- •mayed) But what? What was it I made plain? ISABEL. What you were thinking about me. It's perfectly natural you would wonder a little about that, too. AMES. But I didn't. I assure you I didn't won- der ISABEL. (Interrupting) How could you help won- dering about what you're wondering about? AMES. But I'm not! Indeed I'm not! ISABEL. (Laughing) Why, of course you are! You're wondering just how romantic I am. That's what you're wondering ! AMES. (Much relieved — sits) Oh ! Oh, well, per- 70 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS haps I was wondering a little about that! Yes, I — I admit it. You are romantic, you say? ISABEL. I was when I was a child. AMES. (With some eagerness) What were you romantic about then? ISABEL. When I was a child? AMES. Yes. What did you find to be romantic about? What — uh — in a general way, I mean. ISABEL. (Lightly thoughtful) Oh — well, I sup- pose the same things you were being romantic about at the same time — that is, about the same time — I suppose. (She does not smile and speaks without stress.) AMES. (Smiling nervously, trying to be easy) Oh, yes. ISABEL. I think there was a great romantic influ- ence upon the whole country about that time, don't you? AMES. Just about — then? (Slight stress on "then.") ISABEL. Yes. I think what did it was the World's Fair. AMES. You do ? Well, there was the San Fran- cisco Fair and the St. Louis one and the — the one at Buffalo and — and, yes, wasn't there one once in Chi- cago in — ah, in ISABEL. Yes, and one in Philadelphia in 1876. AMES. But I meant : which one was the one you meant made everybody so romantic? ISABEL. (Easily as she sews again) 1 was speak- ing of the one when I was a child. AMES. Oh, yes, that one. (He is uncomfortably going on, if he can think -what to say.) ISABEL. (Looking up innocently) I know what you're trying to do. AMES. Why, we were just talking along. I wasn't trying to — to — to ISABEL. Why, yes, you were. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 71 AMES. No, no, ISABEL. Yes. You keep on trying to find out how romantic I still am! AMES. Oh! Oh, well ISABEL. Oh, I don't mean that I'm as romantic as you are, Mr. Ames ! The most romantic woman isn't so romantic as the least romantic man. AMES. What? ISABEL. It's very simple. You see, men don't get older. AMES. Men don't? ISABEL. No, they don't. They don't get older and they stay young and romantic. FLORENCE. (Outside) Mr. Ames ! Mr. Ames ! ISABEL. Don't they? Stay romantic? AMES. Well, I— I ISABEL. For instance, when you're interested in anyone, don't you prefer to be alone with them? AMES. Yes, I do — I am — we are FLORENCE. (Outside) Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames! ISABEL. Doesn't she mean you? AMES. Oh, yes, your charming little niece. ISABEL. Charming ! Yes ! AMES. Oh, that doesn't mean that I like all of them. I believe I mentioned that last night. ISABEL. Yes, I believe you did. AMES. But there is something about this one that ISABEL. Yes ! AMES. Yes, indeed ! She's your FLORENCE. (Outside) Mr. Ames! Mr. Ames! ISABEL. She's calling you, isn't she? AMES. So it seems. ISABEL. Hadn't you better AMES. Yes. I'll just tell her — perhaps I'd better. ISABEL. Yes, do. AMES. Yes, yes, I (Goes up center, looking off right.) 72 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS FLORENCE. (Outside) Mr. Ames! ( ISABEL rises and goes to left center, listens for a second, and then crosses to door, left.) AMES. Just a moment! Your aunt and I — oh, have you finished your game? (ISABEL exits door, left.) FLORENCE. (Outside) I'm coming. AMES. She's coming. (Turns and stares at ISA- BEI/S vacant chair. Goes' up center, looks off left. Goes to door down left and looks off.) Well, I (FLORENCE enters up right.) FLORENCE. (Has her racquet but not the net of balls) I knocked all the balls as far as I could in the shrubbery. He has to hunt till he finds 'em. (Comes down left center.) Then I ran and fixed about that telegram. AMES. (Apprehensively) Oh, no. I really can't FLORENCE. (Lightly) Don't worry! If you don't like it when it comes, you can just say it isn't im- portant and tear it up, can't you? AMES. I suppose so. (Disturbed.) FLORENCE. Attaboy! (Crosses right.) AMES. (Nervously, pacing up and down left) But j FLORENCE. (Seriously) Is anything bothering you ? (She sits on sofa, right.) AMES. (With a rather hurried laugh) Why, of course not! FLORENCE. Did Aunt Isabel say AMES. She said — she said — I understood her to say that she wasn't your aunt exactly — FLORENCE. (Carelessly) No, she's my great- aunt. AMES. Yes ; so she said. FLORENCE. Why? THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 73 AMES. Of course there are a great many young great-aunts. FLORENCE. (Carelessly) Young great-aunts ? I don't see how they could be. AMES. (Looking at her plaintively) Oh, I meant comparatively, like your Aunt Isabel. FLORENCE. Oh, I s'pose Aunt Ellen knows how old Aunt Isabel is, but you know how some women are. AMES. (Hurriedly) You mean these miracles? FLORENCE. No ; I mean they don't usually tell. I don't see why people get so sensitive about things like that ; I'll tell anybody that wants to know, what I am ; I'm nineteen ; / don't care ! Golly ! AMES. (Right) Well, it's a subject I'm inter- ested in ; always been interested in, I mean. I mean in a general way, of coruse. FLORENCE. What you gettin' at ? Do you always do this when you're alone with people; talk about other women and their ages? AMES. (Hastily) No ! No, indeed, I don't ! FLORENCE. (Coldly) If you're so anxious about it, why. I'm on right confidential terms with Aunt Isabel and I could ask her right out how AMES. (Vehemently) No! You mustn't think of such a thing. You really" mustn't ! FLORENCE. I won't. That is, I won't if you're nice to me. Don't I intrigue you any? AMES. You do! Don't you see how much you do? FLORENCE. I never have had a chance at a man of experience. You wouldn't ever think that I suffer terribly, would you? AMES. You do? (Sits on sofa, left of FLOR- ENCE.) FLORENCE. I suffer fearfully! AMES. What from? FLORENCE. Well, from thoughts. I suffer because 74 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS nobody understands 'em and so I can't tell 'em. I don't know what makes me tell you all these things, like this — (Smiles at him trustingly) — but it's nice, our getting intimate this way, isn't it? (Going al- most straight on.) Do you remember where you left my slippers ? AMES. (With secret alarm) Your slippers ? FLORENCE. Will you see, please ? I thought maybe you'd be so awfully kind as to (She sweetly lets the inference be made as she projects a foot.) AMES. (Uneasily) I rather think your aunt said she was coming back. FLORENCE. Don't you remember what you did with 'em? (A sweet, slight reproach.) AMES. I think I put them FLORENCE. (Looking abut) They haven't been taken out, have they ? AMES. (Right center) I don't think so. I didn't see anyone FLORENCE. Why, there they are on the hearth ! AMES. Oh, yes, so they are ! FLORENCE. Would it be too outrageous of me to — AMES. Oh, no, indeed ! (Rises and starts left.) FLORENCE. No, over there. (AMES crosses to fireplace. Gets slippers.) AMES. (Glancing apprehensively left) I'll be only too delighted ! (He kneels.) FLORENCE. (As he helps her to exchange the ten- nis shoes for the slippers) My, it's a relief to be with a man that understands the deeper side of life a few minutes now and then ! (None of FLORENCE'S speeches should be exaggerated in manner or "point- ed.") AMES. (Nervously) I'm glad you like it. FLORENCE. Is that all ? Couldn't you make it any stronger? Don't you think I'm a grand little *hing? (She bends toward him, apparently earnest.) THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 75 AMES. (Smiling wanly but speaking with warmth) I do. FLORENCE. You do — what? AMES. I do — indeed ! (JOHNNIE enters up right with the net of tennis balls.) FLORENCE. (Earnestly) Attaboy! You're sure you "do indeed"? JOHNNIE. (Up right center, speaking all in a breath) Why don't you try the lady with a pair o' nines, Mr. Ames. We got a good stock o' nine-B's on the top shelf in the store-room! (AUNT ELLEN enters left. She comes in rather quickly; her expression is gracious; but she is astonished to find AMES on his knees before FLORENCE. She halts sharply, speaks quickly; and at once turns to go out indignantly by the way she has come.) AUNT ELLEN. Excuse me ! (Turns back left.) AMES. Oh (He would rise, but FLORENCE checks him.) FLORENCE. My other slipper! AMES. (Hastily) But I (He sees ISABEL through open door left.) Oh, gracious! (Rising. ISABEL enters, left.) ISABEL. (Smilingly and smoothly — as she enters) Ellen, dear, I've been looking for you ; to meet Mr. Ames. (Laughing commiseratingly, she comes to them.) Poor Florence, is she having trouble with her new slippers again? (ISABEL points to tennis shoe AMES has under his arm; he immediately throws it on sofa.) I'm afraid you'll think we're terrible peo- ple to make use of our visitors, Mr. Ames. 76 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. (Who has risen) Oh, no, not at all, not at all, indeed ! ISABEL. (Has crossed to right of him, ELLEN is left center) I'm afraid we do, though. You'll make up your mind never to come here again! (With a gesture indicating ELLEN.) I think I told you I wanted you to meet my other — ah (She is speaking with inconsequent cheerfulness — and tapers the sound off as he turns toward ELLEN. ISABEL, smilingly nodding toward ELLEN) Ellen, dear, this is Mr. Ames. AMES. Ah, ah (He bows.) AUNT ELLEN. (Non-committal) How do you do ? ISABEL. Mr. Ames, Ellen is my other niece. AMES. Your other How do you do ? (With a blank expression. He makes an inarticulate sound and stands in an instantaneously arrested attitude.) ISABEL. (Easily) Now you know my whole fam- ily ; my niece and my great-niece. They're both the greatest comfort to me. AMES. (Hastily) Oh, yes. Thank you! ISABEL. (Lightly turning from him) And, Flor- ence, if you've finished with the — the footwear (ELLEN sits by the table, left center.) AMES. Oh, yes, we've finished. ISABEL. (Sunnily including JOHNNIE and speak- ing as if she were trying to think of something en- tertaining for them) Then wouldn't — wouldn't you three like to — wouldn't you three like to dance or something ? AMES. What ? ISABEL. (Crossing to ELLEN near the table, left center) You must all go right on entertaining your- selves just as if we weren't here. We love to look on, don't we, Ellen? AUNT ELLEN. (With a glance toward FLORENCE'S THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 77 feet) Yes, when they behave. (Sits left of table — ISABEL sits right of table.) ISABEL. (Laughing to ELLEN on this, then at once speaking to the other group) Can't you think of anything to amuse yourselves? (Then as with a quick afterthought, not seriously said, yet perhaps meant) You don't mind our being here, do you? FLORENCE. (Jumping up) Of course not ! Turn on that record! ISABEL. Yes. Music, Johnnie! (JOHNNIE goes up.) AUNT ELLEN. (Grimly, to ISABEL, who is taking her seat by the table) But they don't dance; they only waggle. It's fearful ! (JOHNNIE pauses.) ISABEL. Oh, but they love it so ; they mustn't be disappointed. (To the others) She doesn't really mind ; you can dance. (She sits, taking up her "work.") FLORENCE. Attaboy ! (She seizes AMES" hand.) AMES. (Nervously) I don't know these new dances ! ISABEL. She'll teach you. Music, Johnnie ! (JOHNNIE turns on the records.) FLORENCE. (Forcing AMES to dance) Cm' on! I never heard of a man that couldn't dance with me! Ouch! (She hops, her foot slightly injured, but keeps on dancing.) AMES. (As she cries out) Murder ! ISABEL. (Under cover to him; he is close to her) Walk. Just walk. That's all you need to do. (He does better upon this.) That's it; just walk. FLORENCE. (To AMES) Isn't it divine ? (HENRY enters up right.) ISABEL. (Indulgently, to AUNT ELLEN) Isn't it 78 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS delightful to see them so happy? (HENRY comes down to ISABEL. He has a folded telegraph blank in his hand. She observes him.) It isn't time for Mr. Ames' train, Henry? HENRY. No'm. (He shows the blank.) ISABEL. Oh ! Something for me ? (She rises and extends her hand for the blank.) FLORENCE. (Seeing this) Oh, murder! (Under her breath. They stop dancing, left center.) ISABEL. (As HENRY hands her the blank) What is it? HENRY. (As ISABEL examines the blank) I don't rightly know, ma'am. I was told about it in such a hurry. (He glances nervously at FLORENCE.) I may not 'a' got my instructions just exactly. ISABEL. (Puzzled) Your "instructions"? Oh, this isn't really a telegram. No ; there's no envelope and date, and it's written in such a bad backhand I can hardly Oh ! (She speaks as though with a sudden revelation, comprehending, and glances quick- ly at FLORENCE.) Oh, I see. (Rises.) I don't think it's for me, Henry. (Hands telegram to HENRY.) FLORENCE. Here, let me! (She comes to the res- cue, seises the blank, hands it swiftly to AMES, who stands dismayed.) You see, Mr. Ames wired his partners from here and so this must be from them. Of — course it's a telegram ; isn't it, Mr. Ames ? ISABEL. (Gently insistent) Is it, Mr. Ames ? AMES. (Desperately) I can't read it ! ISABEL. It is a difficult handwriting. (She knows it is FLORENCE'S hand, though somewhat disguised.) FLORENCE. (Taking the blank hastily) I can read most any hand. Why, yes, it's perfectly plain. It says : "No business in the office to-day. If you wish to remain where you are no reason whatever for re- turning to New York. Signed Witherspoon and Ames." He told me himself he had a partner named THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 79 Witherspoon. (Goes back of table. JOHNNIE stops phonograph.) ISABEL. (To AMES) Oh, then it is a real tele- gram ? (She knows, of course, it isn't.) AMES. (As FLORENCE turns quickly toward him) Why, it — ah — seems to be. ISABEL. Oh, then you'll — you'll stay ? (If he stays it appears that he stays upon FLORENCE'S urgence.) AMES. Why— I— I ISABEL. (Covering her real feeling) Mr. Ames won't be going to the station, Henry. (HENRY exits up left. FLORENCE has carelessly set the blank upon the table, after reading it, her fingers resting upon it, but AUNT ELLEN draws it away to look at it, FLORENCE turning as if to reclaim it.) AUNT ELLEN. (Rather excitedly) But there isn't even an envelope; it isn't a real teleyram; the writ- ing's queer, but it looks exactly like Flor (She finishes the word, but ISABEL cuts her off loudly on "Flor.") ISABEL. (Pushing the bell-button, on left wall) Music, Johnnie ! Isn't it lovely ? Now you can dance all day ! (She turns to center as she speaks, and limps suddenly. And says "Oh, oh!" as if in pain. JOHN- NIE has started the vocalion at her first word. It plays softly. FLORENCE has seized AMES' hand with a jubilant "Hooray!" as the music starts. But they pause as AUNT ELLEN speaks.) AUNT ELLEN. What's the matter with you? ISABEL. Nothing — oh! (She limps again.) JOHNNIE. (Coming down anxiously) What is the matter, Miss Stuart? ISABEL. Nothing. I'm afraid I sat a little too long on a baggage truck in a cold wind last night, that's all. It's nothing. 80 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS FLORENCE. Oh, rheumatism ; that's nothing ! (She retains AMES' hand; moves as if to begin dancing.) (MATTIE enters, left, her right hand behind her.) AMES. (Plaintively, to FLORENCE) Just a (He means "Just a moment'' but breaks away from FLORENCE and crosses to center to speak to ISABEL.) I hope it's nothing very ISABEL. No — no — it isn't — it's just a — just a touch. You mustn't stop dancing. (FLORENCE crosses to center, takes AMES up center to dance.) JOHNNIE. (Taking ISABEL'S arm decisively) Here ! I'll look after you, Miss Stuart ; I'd prefer to. (He gives FLORENCE a bitter look.) ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. (To MATTIE) Did you find them, Mattie? MATTIE. (Hurriedly) Ya don't want to put 'em on here, do you ? ISABEL. (Quiet pathos) No, I'll (As if to go out left.) JOHNNIE. Put what on? ISABEL. Nothing. MATTIE. (Bringing her hand from behind her, showing an old pair of rather large, flat black slip- pers. Not displaying them pointedly to audience) Them. I don't mind lendin' 'em to you, but ISABEL. (Quickly, checking her) I thought per- haps they might help me, but not — not ("Not now and here," she means; the scene is hurried.) JOHNNIE. (Taking the slippers, speaks quickly and emphatically) Why not? Why, certainly ! You let me put — 'em on for you, Miss Stuart. I'd prefer to! I'd very much prefer to! Here! You better lie down. (He is conducting her to the sofa, her limp in-creasing a little.) ISABEL. (Trustfully) Do you think I'd better lie down, Johnnie? THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 81 JOHNNIE. (Severely, to MATTIE) Whyn't you fix those pillows for her? (ISABEL lies down. MATTIE hastily obeys the suggestion.) She's all tired out. And I guess she's had enough to make anybody tired ! (He takes off her slippers.) AMES. What is the matter, Miss Stuart? JOHNNIE. (Quickly, sharply) Why, she's been made awful tired and she's got rheumatism and everything ! ISABEL. Oh, no ; not quite ! JOHNNIE. (To MATTIE) Put that wrap over her. AMES. (Starting to stoop to fix her slippers) Won't you let me ISABEL. (Stopping him) Oh, no! You must go on dancing. AMES. But I (AMES stares all the time in- credulously at ISABEL. So does AUNT ALLEN, across left.) ISABEL. I'm so much trouble, Johnnie (Point- ing to the slippers.) Aren't they awful? JOHNNIE. (As he puts them on) No'm, they're not. I prefer 'em myself ! I very much prefer 'em ! (He puts her other slippers defiantly under his arms.) You just lie back and rest, Miss Stuart. I'll look after you. ISABEL. Thank you, Johnnie. (She lies on sofa, head at right of sofa, facing center.) FLORENCE. Louder, Mattie! (MATTIE opens vocation to its loudest. FLORENCE seizes AMES, and they dance.) JOHNNIE. If you can rest with all this going on ? (AMES and FLORENCE dance over to left front of table, go around table and come to center.) ISABEL. That's right ! That's right ! (Referring 82 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS to the dance.) Isn't it lovely to see the young people so happy? (AMES and FLORENCE start to whirl around in cen- ter, AMES looking at ISABEL. ISABEL, as if beat- ing time, saying, "One, two, one, two") CURTAIN NOTE. — This final scene will have to be worked out carefully in rehearsal, beginning slowly; and the se- quence, as shown here, may need altering when it is worked out. The effect is to bring the curtain down not on a "curtain line" but upon a scene of move- ment and sound conveying the "situation." JOHNNIE is only earnest and indignantly sympathetic with ISABEL here, but the appearance of things is: Both gentlemen are anxious about ISABEL and that FLOR- ENCE is amazed. ACT III SCENE : The scene is the same interior shown in the Second Act, the time is late in the afternoon — toward evening — of the same day. The out- door light, seen through the sun-room windows, has a rosier amber than in the Second Act. A forerunning of the approaching sunset; but the stage is still bright with light. DISCOVERED : AUNT ELLEN, as in Act II, sits by the- fireplace, which sends out a warm glow; she is crocheting. MATTIE, on hands and knees, is facing the cabinet up right. The dooi\* of the cabinet are partly open, revealing shelves of old boxes; old ornaments of various kinds, small vases, silver porringers, etc.; two or three old pistols; rolled papers — old and tied with red rib- bon; some old books. MATTIE is pawing care- fully among these, apparently puzzled. Scene to be played quietly and inconsequently; •ather quickly. (MAYTIE discovered rubbing the inside of the left door of the cabinet. AUNT ELLEN comes down, center.) MATTIE. It certainly ain't here, Miss Ellen. AUNT ELLEN. But that's where it ought to be. Did she tell you to scrape that date off? MATTIE. I wasn't to say, Miss Ellen. Anyway, it's only half the date was to be scraped off. AUNT ELLEN. It's very singular! But the rest of 83 84 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS it is more singular. (ISABEL enters, left.) Did you ask Aunt Isabel? ISABEL. Did she ask me what, Ellen ? (She limps to center.) AUNT ELLEN. Oh, the poor thing ! She's limping worse. It's very singular ! ISABEL. What is ? AUNT ELLEN. It's very singular, the Family Bible's missing. ISABEL. Oh, is that all ! (ISABEL limps to sofa.) AUNT ELLEN. Is that "all"? Do you realize the date of my birth is written in that Bible ? ISABEL. (Sits on sofa, lightly) Oh, yes ; yours is there, too, isn't it ? I've always thought fathers were an inconsiderate class of men. When they have a baby they only think of themselves ; they go and write down the date in a Bible, even when the baby's a girl. They don't stop to think. AUNT ELLEN. (Looking at her with an approach to suspicion) What is the matter with you ? ISABEL. Do you think something does seem the matter with me? Do you really? (She is pleased with the idea that "something" may really be the mat- ter with her.) AUNT ELLEN. You haven't got upset this way for quite a long while now ; but it certainly isn't the first time, is it, Mattie? (ISABEL has her lace with her and begins to work. AUNT ELLEN doesn't turn her head to make this inquiry, but continues her chochet- ing.) MATTIE. (Quickly and casually) No'm ; it hap- pens every time she has a shooter. Last one was that Philadelphy man- widower ; she half -killed him horse- back ridin' ; and before him that awful youngish one from Buffalo ; and then that old one — ISABEL. (Quickly, to check MATTIE'S list of suit- ors) Never mind the old one. Ellen, there's an- other Bible upstairs. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 85 AUNT ELLEN. But I'm used to reading my daily chapter from this one. ISABEL. Don't you suppose you'd find much the same ideas in both of 'em ? AUNT ELLEN. (Sharply) Aunt Isabel ! ISABEL. Yes, Ellen? AUNT ELLEN. I suppose you treat me like a child because I'm only your niece ! ISABEL. (Reproachfully) Ellen, have I ever taken advantage of my position as your aunt? AUNT ELLEN. (Querulous) A great many peo- ple have very little respect for nieces; and as I'm only your half -niece ISABEL. (Taking her up indulgently) As you're only my half -niece you have only half as much re- spect for me as you ought to have? AUNT ELLEN. (Severely going on) I don't pre- tend to fathom your purpose in concealing the Bible from me ISABEL. (Shaking her head) Oh, I'm not sure that nieces ought to be allowed to look at all the pic- tures in any old Family Bible. . . . But of course I don't admit I did hide it. AUNT ELLEN. (Incensed, becoming stately as she goes left) 7 decline to be treated like a child ! (She exits left.) MATTIE. She's on ! (Coming down center.) ISABEL, trie's what? MATTIE. i>he knows the Good Book never walked out o' there by itself. ISABEL. (Turning eagerly in her chair) Did you do just what I told you to? MATTIE. (With a gesture to a chair, left center. She tells it quickly without "acting") Yes'm. I waited till he was settin' in here alone a bit ago — so I come in and begun to look around, and I says to myself like, the way you told me, "Well, that's funny," I says, talkin' to myself. "It's funny where 86 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS sech a thing as that could get to. A great big old Family Bible !" I says. "What'd you say was miss- in'?" he says. So I says, "Excuse me. It's nothin' . . . Only the Family Bible; we always kept it in here." (With a gesture to the cabinet.) "So I know it must be around somewheres," I says. Well, he jumped right up. "My goodness !" he says. "Let me help you look for it !" he says. ISABEL. Yes, Mattie? Did he look all over the room? MATTIE. (Calmly) He pretty near took up the floor. Then he went out in the hall and looked under the stairs and under everything else. "Maybe some- body's usin' it fer jest a while," he says, "and they'll bring it back here where they got it." "Well," I says — I put this in myself ; you didn't tell me to — "well," I says, "they might bring it back here, yes ; or somebody might of put it up in the attic." "In the attic?" he says. "I hardly got time to go up there, though," I says. "I do take a terrible interest in Bibles," he says. "Do you think there's any objec- tion to my goin' up in the attic to see ?" he says. "Oh, no, sir," I says, "none at all." "Somebody might 'a' put it there, as you say," he says. "They often do," he says, "and if you think Miss Stuart wouldn't mind . . ." "Oh, no," I says, "I know she wouldn't. You just go ahead," I says. ISABEL. Mattie! And he did? MATTIE. Yes'm. I reckon he's still up there. ISABEL. On the whole, he seems quite excited about it, then? MATTIE. Well, I never see a man show so much energy tryin' to find the Good Book. ISABEL. We all ought to be glad this has hap- pened, Mattie. MATTIE. Why ought we? ISABEL. We ought to be glad to have such a re- ligious man in the house. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 87 MATTIE. (Dryly, going left) Yes'm. (Reflec- tively) I must say I don't blame you fer hidin' it — with all your ages — and the family scandal wrote out in it ! ISABEL. What "scandal" ? MATTIE. About your poor father, ma'am. ISABEL. Good gracious, Mattie, it isn't a scandal for a man to marry a second time ! MATTIE. Yes'm. At his terrible age, it was. ISABEL. Well, I never reproached him for it, be- cause I shouldn't have been born if he hadn't ! Have you seen my other case of needles, Mattie? (Rises.) MATTIE. No'm. What I don't understand's why you wanted him to know it was missin'. (She hopes to be told.) ISABEL. No, that's very true. You don't under- stand that, Mattie. (Crosses left.) MATTIE. (Opening the door to go out) No'm. (Blankly.) ISABEL. When he comes down — oh, there's that case of needles ! (She sees it on the table, left center, and steps toward it.) MATTIE. (W .rningly ) Sh! He is down! ISABEL. Dovy i where ? (She abandons her inten- tion of getting \he needles, though she is near them. She turns and g^s quickly back, with almost no lame- ness— to the sofa and resumes her work. MATTIE stares, astonished.) MATTIE. I thought you was limpin' this after- noon ? ISABEL. (Whispering across, to her) Sh ! I am ! It comes and goes. Is he there? MATTIE. (Peering out of the door and looking back, whispering) He's lookin' under the hall sofy again! (She coughs, steps back, and AMES enters, left. AMES comes in quickly, with the frown of a person intent on a serious search; his eye is on the cabinet, and he has come into the room to go there. 88 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS He checks himself at sight of ISABEL by the fire. MATTIE observes them both with interest.) AMES. (Center) Oh! Oh! How do you do? ISABEL. (Working) How do you do ? AMES. I hope you're — better? (He glances at the cabinet.) ISABEL. Oh, yes; it comes and goes; you know. (Touches her knee.) AMES. (In a sympathetic tone) No, I don't ; I've never had it, so far. ISABEL. (Rising and looking about) Not "so far." AMES. (Rather eagerly) Are you looking for something ? ISABEL. Yes, I had it a little while ago, too; it's stupid of me ! (Rises.) AMES. (Eagerly, quickly, hoping she means the Bible) Can't you remember where you put it? Did you have it in here? ISABEL. Yes. (She moves slowly and her lame- ness is now somewhat more apparent. MATTIE, kept by her curiosity at the door, observes her with en- larging eyes and an opening mouth. ISABEL goes on.) Yes, I'm sure I had it in here — if I could only think where I put it. (Crosses left.) AMES. (Eagerly) Let me look. You really shouldn't move about much, I'm afraid. (He is al- ready looking about.) ISABEL. (Plaintively) You're so kind! It is a little bothersome, at times. (There is a faint sound like a choke from MATTIE, not mirth, but a moral amazement. ISABEL turns toward her, at this.) That's all, Mattie. I shan't want you for anything more. MATTIE. Yes'm. (Exits left.) ISABEL. (Concentrating) If I could only think — it seems to me I left it somewhere over on this side of the room. (The left side.) THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 89 AMES. (Dubiously) I hardly think so. (He glances behind a large wall chair.) I already have looked all over this (Crosses to left to lower end of table.) ISABEL. (With a little triumphant emphasis) Why, there it is ! On the table all the time ! AMES. (Blankly) On the table? ISABEL. (Pointing to the little case of needles) Yes. Just where I left it, of course! (He picks it up.) AMES. (Blankly) This? Is this what you mean ? ISABEL. (Laughing at him) Yes! My needles. What did you think I meant? AMES. I? I didn't know exactly. ISABEL. Then what were you looking for? AMES. (Quickly) I was looking for your needles, too. I didn't know they were what you wanted, I mean to say, but I wanted to find them if you were looking for them. ISABEL. I see. You didn't know you were look- ing for them, but you were. I'll take them, please. AMES. Oh, yes. (He hands them to her. They are about center, down.) ISABEL. Thank vou. (She has stretched out her arm to take the needles, looking at him gravely. Something in her look arrests him and he uncon- sciously retains his grasp of the little red case; so that for a moment or two their fingers are almost in contact upon it. Their eyes meet, and her expression for that moment becomes one of an almost revealed mockery. He starts slightly; the mockery deepens, and she laughs.) AMES. (Nervously) What are you laughing at? ISABEL. (Turning to go back to sofa) It was so peculiar, your looking for something without know- ing what you were looking for! (She changes to a sudden little gasp.) Oh! 90 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. Are you in considerable pain? (Comes to her.) ISABEL. It just comes and goes. (She laughs again, gasps again, laughs once wore as she goes to the chair.) AMES. (Nervously) Won't you lean on me ? ISABEL. (As before) No, no ! AMES. (Anxiously) Can't I get you something? ISABEL. (Sinking into sofa) No ; there isn't any in the house. AMES. (Coming toward her) I'm so sorry ! ISABEL. (Smiling) It's gone now. It comes and goes. That is, it comes but it does go; you know — like most other things in the world ! (Looking up at him cliarmingly, wistfully for a moment.) AMES. I must say — your eyes ISABEL. Yes? My eyes? I think I remember your speaking of them this morning. AMES. Your eyes ISABEL. (Looking back at her work, speaks with a change to a matter-of-fact tone) Ah, what were you going to say about them ? AMES. (Set aback) I was going to say (He assumes a solicitous tone.) I was going to say, don't you think you ought to get advice about using them for such fine work? ISABEL. They've held out so well. I think now they'll last my time. Do you have any trouble with yours ? (Casually.) AMES. I ? Oh, no. I use glasses sometimes for very fine print. ISABEL. I'm so sorry. AMES. (Laughing nervously) Oh, it isn't be- cause of my a ("Age," he means to say, but cuts it off.) I mean it just happened. ISABEL. (Consolingly) I know. Even very young people get these little astigmatisms. They don't mean anything. THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 91 AMES. There's something I haven't had a chance to explain to you ISABEL. Please don't explain anything — especially if it's about a telegram. AMES. But that telegram wasn't ISABEL. (Declining to listen) No, no ! Poor man, you had to stay, didn't you? (Affirmative.) AMES. (Seriously) I wanted to ! ISABEL. (With light indulgence) Of course. (He turns to center.) What have you been doing for the last hour or so ? AMES. I? (He unconsciously looks upward, thinking of the attic.) I've just been looking about. (He goes to the cabinet up right. MATTIE has left one of the doors ajar.) You have so many interest- ing things. (He quickly and surreptitiously opens the door wider as he speaks and takes a hurried sur- vey of that half of the shelves revealed by the open door. ISABEL turns her head only a little, and applies herself to her work. She knows what he is doing without looking directly at him,.) ISABEL. (As ^ absently) Florence was with you ? AMES. (Absen'1^) No ; she went fishing in your brook with young Mi. White. (He wishes to open the other door of the cabinet.) ISABEL. Fishing? (She turns her head; and he moves down, away from the cabinet, with apparent carelessness.) Did she wear her rubber boots? AMES. (Absently repeating) "Her rubber boots ?" (Then with a sudden start, comes down right.) I don't know! I don't know what her "foot-wear" was ; I'm really not in the boot-and-shoe business : I'm a lawyer ! ISABEL. (Consolinaly, as she rises) She won't be gone long. (She goes toward up left as she speaks.) I'm so glad you changed your mind about them. AMES. About them? (Front of sofa.) ISABEL. (Nearing the door up left) Yes, about 92 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS the new generation : the "brazen little hussies" ! You frightened me last night about them ! AMES. Why, how'd I frighten you? ISABEL. Why, I was afraid you mightn't like my great-niece. Under the circumstances, you see — well, that would have been too bad, wouldn't it? (She gives him a glance of quick smiling mockery\ over her shoulder, and passes out of the door up left. He stares after her, perplexed; passes his hand hur- riedly over his brow; then goes to the cabinet; opens its other door and stoops to look within. ISABEL re- enters down left, having gone out only to see if he would go to the cabinet. She sees him there as she comes in.) ISABEL. (Apologetically) I'm afraid (AMES turns to her.) I'm afraid I left my work here. (She comes down toivard right.) AMES. (Embarrassed, moving hastily away from the cabinet) Ah — I was — your work? Let me find it for you. (In his nervousness he goes to the table, left center, to look for it.) ISABEL. Oh, no. Don't bother. I think I left it on the sofa. (She reaches the chair.) Yes. (She sits on sofa.) I think I'll stay here, after all, if you're sure I won't be interrupting you. AMES. Interrupting me! Why, I'm not doing anything. What in the world do you mean ? ISABEL. You spoke of our having interesting things. I didn't want to interrupt your looking at them. AMES. Oh! (A puzzled "Oh, that's-what-you- meant" is what he expresses.) ISABEL. (Placidly) I noticed you were interested in that cabinet. AMES. (Somewhat relieved) Yes; so I was. (He goes to it and completes his investigation.) Yes, indeed. (He sees that the Bible is not there, and THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 93 adds, in a blank tone) Yes, it's a very interesting old piece. ISABEL. Do you think so ? AMES. I'm not an expert — on periods, but I'd call it a very fine, quaint old piece. ISABEL. (With a little too much serenity) Yes, they had it made for a present to me on my fifteenth birthday. AMES. Oh, oh! I see, it's a reproduction. It was made for you — your fifteenth birthday? ISABEL. Yes; it had an inscription with the date on it. AMES. (Trying to conceal his sudden great inter- est) It had? An inscription with the . . . where? (He looks quickly over the top and sides of the cabi- net as he speaks.) Where's there any da — where 's there any inscription? I ion't see an inscription. ISABEL. I think it's inside the door on the left. AMES. (Swinging the door open instantly and putting on his glasses) On the left. Yes. It says: "To Isabel Stuart. On her sixteenth birthday, June thirteenth." (He begins the reading rapidly, but sloivs up and looks more and more closely at the in- scription, which is in small gilt letters; and the con- cluding words are slow with bafflement. He re- peats:) "Fifteenth birthday. June thirteenth." That's all it says. The rest seems to have been — uh — scraped off. ISABEL. (Lightly) Oh, that was only the year they gave it to me. I suppose the figures have been worn off — with time. Do you think it's an interest- ing piece of cabinet making? AMES. (Blankly, giving up the figures) Yes, very. A very interesting piece indeed, I should say ! ISABEL. (As if a little absently) Have you ever noticed how disappointing most fine quaint old pieces are when you come to look inside of 'em ? 94 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. Yes, that's true ; they often are. (Glances at cabinet.) ISABEL. We try to do better with that one; we keep relics in it ; daguerreotypes, all sorts of things — the Family Bible and— (Then, as by a casual thought) Oh — Mattie tells me it's missing — by the way. She said you were so kind about it. AMES. (Flustered) She did? She said (Conies to center.) ISABEL. (Smiling gratefully) She said you helped her look for it. AMES. Oh, that was nothing. Nothing at all ! ISABEL. She said you were so kind. AMES. Oh, no ! Not at all ! ISABEL. (With benevolent appreciation) It's a little thing, of course, to stop and help a servant like that, but it's the little things that show our charac- ters. We learn that in Sunday-school, don't we? It was so thoughtful of you to stop and help poor Mattie like that! AMES. (Hurriedly) Oh, no; you mustn't praise me for it. It was nothing at all. ISABEL. (Smiling wistfully and observing him as if rather wondering) Do you think you seem a little different to-day, from last night? AMES. Oh, no. Not at all. ISABEL. Don't you notice it? AMES. Why, no, of course not. Not at all. ISABEL. Last night you were — well, you were quite — fluent! But all day you've hardly said anything except, "Oh, no, not at all, of course not" or "Noth- ing, oh, nothing at all." AMES. Oh, no, not at — that is to say, I ISABEL. (Rises — sympathetically) Is it because you can't think of anything else to say? AMES. Oh, no, not at — no ! No, it isn't because of that; not at — not a bit! ISABEL. (Solicitously) You do seem to be think- THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 95 ing. I can see you're doing that; but why don't you tell me what you're thinking? AMES. Because I'm really not. ISABEL. You're not thinking? AMES. No. Not about anything, I mean. ISABEL. Is it something you won't tell me, or something you can't tell me? AMES. It's nothing. It's nothing at — nothing whatever! Nothing whatever! ISABEL. (Sympathetically) Can't you think of anything else to say? AMES. (Desperately, yet feebly) Why, yes, of course. Of course I can. Anything at all ; any- thing. (Goes around table and crosses to left cen- ter.) ISABEL. You don't think I've changed since last night, do you? You aren't disappointed in me, are you? AMES. Why, of course I'm not. Not at — cer- tainly not. Why, no ; not ISABEL. "Not at all!" "Certainly not!" And you haven't changed, have you? AMES. Why, no — not at ISABEL. (Going nearer to him, reproachfully) Not at all! Why, of course not! Not at all! Nothing whatever! (She turns -up.) AMES. (Flustered) What on earth do you mean ? ISABEL. Why, that's what you were going to say, wasn't it? You haven't changed, have you? (Fin- ishing with quick reproach.) AMES. Why, of course not. Not at — no! I wouldn't ! ISABEL. (Approvingly) That's all I meant ! You wouldn't! When you've done a thing, you're the sort of man that stands by it, no matter what! AMES. (Astounded, breaking out) My soul ! I believe you're making fun of me ! ISABEL. Why, of course I'm not! Not at all! 96 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS AMES. (With plaintive vehemence) But you say one thing and you seem to mean something else, and you seem to mean one thing and you say another! No wonder I can't say anything but "Not at all" and "Nothing at all"! (Crosses right.) ISABEL. But, don't you see, I'm just trying to get us better acquainted with each other! I think we ought to be, don't you? AMES. (Subsiding to feebleness) I should think it would be a good thing, yes, indeed. ISABEL. Let me see. I've told you why I never married. Isn't there something in particular — isn't there something else you'd like to know ? Can't you think of anything at all? (At each one of these in- terrogatories he seems about to speak; then checks himself and dumbly shakes his head. She insists.) You're sure there isn't anything? (She comes down closer, facing him. He shakes his head again.) And you feel profoundly happy? AMES. (With a manful effort) Yes, indeed ! ISABEL. (With a culmination of bitterness but not in a bitter tone) I believe that's the noblest effort I ever heard any man make ! (Emotion chokes her a very little bit.) AMES. Effort? ISABEL. (Covering her emotion by speaking quickly, but her voice shakes a little. She goes up center) Yes! It was! But don't be afraid! Mr. Ames! I really didn't expect you to be different from other men ; you've done your best and you shall have your reward ! AMES. What "reward"? ISABEL. (A little chokingly, as she looks out up right) I think Johnnie White's bringing it. I think it's a message. (She turns aside with some pathos.) AMES. What "message"? (JOHNNIE enters gloomily up right. He wears an THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 97 old knlckerbocker suit, rough, muddy shoes, and he leaves an old rod and basket near the door. He comes down center and looks coldly at AMES.) JOHNNIE. (With a movement of his head to up right, speaks to AMES deliberately) She's — uh — she's sittin' out on a limb of a willow tree that sticks out over the water and she wants you to come and look at her. AMES. (Frowning) Who's sitting on a limb and wants me to come and look at her ? JOHNNIE. Her. AMES. "Her?" JOHNNIE. (Coldly) I expect you know I mean Florence by this time, Mr. Ames. AMES. (Incredulous) She sent you for me ? JOHNNIE. (With the same even gloom) She got herself out on this limb and she looked over and took a look at herself in the water. Then she said, "Well, I do look right cunning out here, don't I?" "Are we goin' to do any fishin'?" I asked her. Then she said ,"I wish Mr. Ames was here." "What for? To look at you on that limb?" I asked her. "I'll go get him for you." "Don't let him know I sent for him," she told me. "No, I won't," I told her. "He wouldn't even guess when he comes out and looks at you that you want him to ! Oh, no ; he wouldn't !" That limb she's sittin' on, it's pretty old, and it might not hold her up too long, so don't you guess you'd better go, Mr. Ames ? AMES. I? ISABEL. (Gently) Yes, please do. AMES. (A little sharply, to JOHNNIE) I think it would be much better if you'd go back and get her down from that limb and go ahead with your fishing, Mr. White. (Turns away to right.) JOHNNIE. (Still in gloom) Fishin'? She never 98 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS meant that kind. I think you better go, because — from what I know of her she'll sit there either till you come and see how cunning she looks or else falls in the water. ISABEL. Won't you please go and bring her in ? AMES. (Doggedly) Oh, certainly, if you ask me. (He goes abruptly up right.) ISABEL. (Hurriedly, graciously) Of course I don't mean for you to hurry back with her. (To piano.) AMES. (With some coldness) Thank you ! (Exits up right. ISABEL looks after him rather pathetically.) JOHNNIE. She's — she's goin' to get him, Miss Stuart. (Up center.) ISABEL. (Turning down blankly. Sits right of table left. JOHNNIE comes down center.) "What? JOHNNIE. She's made up her mind, and there's just one thing my life's taught me, and that is when a girl like her really starts after an older man — well, you know she's goin' to make him lift her down from that tree. ISABEL. (Quietly) Oh, yes, certainly. JOHNNIE. (With a sudden change, coming to her solemnly) Miss Stuart ; I'd like to see a great deal more of you in the — in the future — as — it — were — than we have in the — in the past as — it — were. ISABEL. (Quiet wonder) Why, what are you talking about, Johnnie? JOHNNIE. What I've been thinkin'. Why, you take a person's character, especially you take a woman's character, and no matter what's the differ- ence between her age and some younger man that thinks a lot of her character age, because she's settled down and quit her foolishness the way you have, Miss Stuart, well, it's the difference between a char- acter like that and one that's got to make a collection of every old man she sees, no matter what his age is, so what I mean; why, this bein' used just for a mes- THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 99 senger boy, I better cure myself and get over it, and the best way'd be to find some character I could look up to and get a sacred feeling about. ISABEL. (Incredulous) Do you mean me, John- nie? JOHNNIE. Yes'm; that's why I'd like to see more of you in the future — as — it — were. Will you? ISABEL. Johnnie White, what are you up to? JOHNNIE. Well, you've read Henry Esmond — or have you? ISABEL. Yes. JOHNNIE. Well, he had that sacred feeling the way a younger man does about a woman some older than he was, wasn't he, didn't he? (Affirmative.) ISABEL. (She jumps up) You funny, funny boy ! You think you'll make Florence jealous! JOHNNIE. (Earnestly) No'm; I don't care much whether she is or not, not much. I mean it ! ISABEL. (Laughing) You mean you're a little cross with her for a few minutes, till she brings you around. JOHNNIE. No'm, I mean it ! I expect it would do her good D'you see the way she looked at me when I said I preferred to, this morning ? But what I mean is, about you, why, I mean it! ISABEL. (Still amused) You don't mean you've got a sacred feeling about me, Johnnie — White ! JOHNNIE. Well, there aren't many people'd un- derstand, but I'd like to think I've got kind o' sacred feeling about you, instead of just a messenger boy, because I look up to you, because you're so differ- ent from her. Won't you let me? ISABEL. (Laughing, but rather touched) What nonsense ! JOHNNIE. (Pathetically in earnest) Yes, but won't you? You know how she acts. Won't you let me? ISABEL. (With amused indulgence, putting her ioo THE INTIMATE STRANGERS arm lightly, affectionately, round his shoulders) Why, yes, if you want to, you dear thing ! (FLORENCE enters briskly up right just on the mo- ment, but halts abruptly. She wears a ''fishing costume" of a most effective kind.) JOHNNIE. (Fervently) I do want to ! (He takes her other hand.) FLORENCE. (Laughing rather loudly, with some disquiet of mind) Well, of all the foolish sights — what are you two doing? JOHNNIE. (Giving her a very short glance over his shoulder, speaks very gently and solemnly to ISABEL) Let's sit over there. . (He means the sofa, across the room. They are left center. He leads\ her. ISABEL is controlling amusement, but is rather tenderly pleased and touched by JOHNNIE'S absur- dity.) ISABEL. (As they move toward right) Where is Mr. Ames ? FLORENCE. He's bringin' my fishin' traps. (Then sharply) What is the—? JOHNNIE. Lean on me. I prefer it! FLORENCE. Is Aunt Isabel's rheumatism worse? ISABEL. Oh, no! (Emphatically on "oh.") JOHNNIE. (Quietly) No. It isn't lameness. (He looks continually at ISABEL.) FLORENCE. Then what is it? ISABEL. (As they reach the sofa) Did you want me to sit here with you, Johnnie ? JOHNNIE. (Solemnly) Yes. Let's sit here. This is the place I meant. (They sit.) FLORENCE. Well, of all the foolish-looking people I ever saw (She is moving up center as if to go out, but stops as JOHNNIE speaks. Then goes down right to chair below fireplace.) JOHNNIE. She couldn't understand. It's the dif- ference in your character. She couldn't ever under- stand. (ISABEL covers her mouth with her hand and clenched kerchief.) FLORENCE. (Puzzled and beginning to be an- noyed) What are you two — it really was a little queer, Aunt Isabel ! ISABEL. What was queer, dear ? FLORENCE. (Laughing rather uncomfortably) Why, to walk in here and find you locked in an em- brace with Johnnie White! ISABEL. (Choking down her amusement) Oh, dear! Did you see that, Florence? FLORENCE. (Still laughing thinly) And after last night — well, I guess the less said about that the bet- ter! ISABEL. Yes, indeed, dear! FLORENCE. (Getting sharper) It seems to me your conduct is certainly open to interpretation. ISABEL. Yes, Florence, I'm afraid I'm a wild thing ! FLORENCE. Why, you've got poor Mr. Ames so upset he isn't normal. ISABEL. Isn't he? (With more serious eager- ness.) FLORENCE. I happened to be on the branch of a tree and he just said to "come down and go in the house, you were worrying about me." (She imitates a brisk, rather peremptory, tone.) ISABEL. (Quickly) Did he ? FLORENCE. (Not "ugly," but reproachful) I don't believe you want anybody to be nice to me; you just want to flirt with every man in the world, yourself ! (Starts up right.) ISABEL. But I don't know 'em all ! JOHNNIE. She couldn't understand ! FLORENCE. (Very sharply, as this repetition goads her) I couldn't understand what? (Comes back down right.) 102 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS JOHNNIE. (To her coldly) Did you ever read Henry Esmond? FLORENCE. No, I didn't! (Sits on arm of arm- chair.) JOHNNIE. I expect not. You aren't intellectual particularly, Florence. It's by William Makepeace Thackeray. FLORENCE. Well, what o' that? JOHNNIE. Oh, nothing. Only he was kind o' car- ried away with a light weight for a while. FLORENCE. This William Makepeace was? JOHNNIE. (Serenely) No. Henry Esmond was. It didn't last very long. Some novels are a good deal like life. (To ISABEL) She couldn't under- stand. FLORENCE. (Raising her voice incredulously) Are you in earnest? JOHNNIE. (Ignoring her) If she lived to be a hundred she couldn't understand, could she? ISABEL. (Whimsically, gently, to him) I don't believe she could ! (AMES enters up right, carrying FLORENCE'S rods and basket.) FLORENCE. (Stung) No ! Well, if I do live to be a hundred I hope I'll understand how to behave at that age ! (AMES turns to go out again, right, as if to avoid a family scene, saying, "I beg your pardon.") ISABEL. (Seeing him) Oh, don't go, Mr. Ames. (AMES comes down center.) It's nothing. (She is gently cheerful.) JOHNNIE. (To FLORENCE) Aren't you ashamed any? FLORENCE. Me? For saying if / live to be a hun- THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 103 dred I hope I'll know better than to let mere adoles- cents talk much to me! Golly, no! ISABEL. (To AMES) I'm afraid she means her great-aunt. FLORENCE. I should say I do ! (Crosses center.) Why, last month there was a three-times widower hangin' round here; he wasn't four minutes under eighty, and a week before it was a child about nine- teen. Last night it was Mr. Ames and now it's Johnnie White ; and they began with a fond embrace! I saw it ! ISABEL. (To AMES) Yes, she did! FLORENCE. Sometimes she doesn't act more'n six- teen ! (Crosses right, back of sofa.) ISABEL. (Rises) There, Mr. Ames, you have me ! AMES. I beg your pardon! ISABEL. My portrait ! Drawn by my great-niece ! I flirt with three-times widowers and with children of nineteen and with you and with Johnnie White, and Johnnie and I began with a fond embrace. To finish it ! I'm a hundred years old and I'm sixteen years old ! So there, my friend, you know me ! (She curtsies to him, and moves rather quickly toward the door, left, limping a little.) JOHNNIE. (Quickly, with a movement toward her) Won't you come back and sit here some more ? ISABEL. (Checking him, smiling) No ; not now. But you can run home and change your clothes and come back to dinner. JOHNNIE. (Solemnly eager) Can I? ISABEL. Yes, you can ; and I'll be waiting for you, Johnnie White! (She gives AMES a little sudden bob of a nod, which seems to daze him, and exits' quickly, left. AMES sits blankly — right of table left.) FLORENCE. (Right) Well, of all the darn con- duct I ever in my life JOHNNIE. (Center — coldly) Of course it's mys- 104 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS terious to you; you couldn't even be expected to un- derstand. (Goes up center.) FLORENCE. (Coming a step toward him, irritated, speaking all in a breath) What is the matter with you? (Follows JOHNNIE up center.) JOHNNIE. Nothing you'd be able to under FLORENCE. (Almost shouting) Stop it! If you say that to me again JOHNNIE. I want to say just one last thing to you! FLORENCE. Oh, you do, do you? JOHNNIE. It's simply just only this: Hark! A man really does like to have somebody tp look up to ! FLORENCE. Well, you don't haf to be silly about everybody you look up to, do you? JOHNNIE. (With a pleasant thought about it and the manner assuming that this thought is beyond her) Well, I don't know. I might. Why, yes. Yes — I think a man might feel a good deal that way. FLORENCE. (Incredulously) What? JOHNNIE. (Easily, having put her in her place) Excuse me, I think that's about all I care to say for the time being. (He goes up and gets his rods and basket.) FLORENCE. Why, you darned little JOHNNIE. (With easy superior carelessness, but not smiling) I may see you later in the evening for a moment or so, if I have time. (Near door up right.) FLORENCE. (Quickly, sharply) Why, you just told her you're coming back to JOHNNIE. (In the same tone as his last speech) To dinner — yes — yes. I said I may see you across the table or somewhere, prob'ly; thanking you for your kind attention, I beg to remain, et cetera, et cetera. (Exits up right without smiling. Start to dim outside lights.) FLORENCE, Why, you (Then turns indig- THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 105 nantly to AMES. Comes down center) Did you ever know any other girl that had an aunt like my aunt? AMES. (Shaking his head seriously) No — no — I never did! FLORENCE. (Gesturing to the door of JOHNNIE'S exit) Why, even that poor little child — it's terrible ! What do you think about her? AMES. "What do I"— I don't know; I don't know! I don't know anything about her! Not a single thing ! (The scene is rather quick.) FLORENCE. (Viciously) Well, I think I know one thing about her. AMES. You're her niece and you think you know one thing about her! FLORENCE. I believe she's been a coquette from the day she was born ! AMES. (Repeating) "From the day she was " (He jumps up sharply.) Have you happened to see the Family Bible? FLORENCE. What Family Bible? AMES. Your family's. The one they keep in here! FLORENCE. Well, for heaven's sake, what would I be doin' with it? AMES. I don't know. FLORENCE. What do you want it for? AMES. What do I want it for! (He recovers himself.) I wanted to see if it's a first edition! I collect first editions ! FLORENCE. You collect first editions of the Bible? AMES. Why, no. FLORENCE. I thought not. (Sits on sofa.) Mr. Ames, do you believe an older man's feeling for a younger woman is deeper than a younger woman's feeling for an older man ? AMES. I don't know. io6 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS FLORENCE. Won't you sit here? AMES. Very well. (Sits on sofa, left of FLOR- ENCE.,) FLORENCE. Before I settle down or anything, I think I ought to have the experience of a serious af- fair with some older man. (Start to dim the stage lights here, very slowly.) AMES. Oh! FLORENCE. (Giving him a lovely smile) Oh, dear ! I wish I had my slippers on instead of these. (She holds up her booted feet plaintively.) AMES. (Rising nervously) Oh, I think you look very well in boots ! FLORENCE. (Frowning) They're so heavy. I do wish I had my (She is interrupted by the open- ing of the door, left. MATTIE enters there, bringing a pair of pretty patent leather slippers. FLORENCE, staring.) Well, for heaven's sake ; just as I was say- in' I wanted 'em ! (AMES sees the slippers in MAT- TIE'S hand, turns and strides hurriedly up to the sun- room. FLORENCE goes on) How in the (She checks herself and at a thought speaks decisively) Mattie! That's no mere coincidence! MATTIE. (Bringing the slippers and setting them on the floor before FLORENCE) No'm. Your Aunt Isabel told me to listen at the door FLORENCE. What? (AMES turns sharply and stares at MATTIE.) MATTIE. (Going on casually) Your Aunt Isabel told me to listen at the door till I heard you begin talkin' about changin' your footwear and then to bring 'em in for you. FLORENCE. She told you to listen at the MATTIE. (Casually) Yes'm ; she says to be per- feckly honorable and pay no attention till I heard the word "slippers," and she says the rest of the con- versation wouldn't be worth my while, anyway. (Exits left.) THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 107 FLORENCE. (Frowning, puzzled. Stares thought- fully at the closing door, then turns front) Well, if that isn't queer! (Emphatically.) AMES. No ! It's no queerer than anything else ! (Coming down right.) FLORENCE. Well, after all, now that my slippers are here AMES. (Nervously) I don't think I'd — I don't think I'd better ! FLORENCE. (Rising, concentrating disapproving- ly) Well, what do you think ? AMES. (With vehemence) Nothing! (He goes up to the sun-room. The light outside has grown rosier and inside it is a little darker. The glow from the fireplace brightens. AUNT ELLEN enters, left. She has changed her dress for a dark silk, which has a suggestion of state about it.) AUNT ELLEN. (Left) Florence, do you consid- er that an appropriate costume for the drawing- room? FLORENCE. (Right — peevishly) It ain't one! AUNT ELLEN. "Ain't?" "Ain't?" FLORENCE. No, it ain't ! It ain't a drawing-room ; it's a living-room ! If people can't be young again, anyhow they can be modern! AUNT ELLEN. (Turning to- go out again, left) I will withdraw from the room until you FLORENCE. (Picking up her slippers) Murder! Don't go — I apologize, gosh — I apologize without the gosh — I'm going Oh, murder, I'm tired ! AUNT ELLEN. Tired! Why, you haven't been doing anything compared to your Aunt Isabel. FLORENCE. (Going slowly and wearily up left with a gloomy sigh) It seems to me as if I just spent my life dressing ! It's all so savorless ! (Suddenly she begins to sing brightly, breaks into a skip, calls back sweetly) See you later, William! (Exits up left, skipping and singing. AMES is surprised. AUNT THE INTIMATE STRANGERS ELLEN looks after FLORENCE disapprovingly, very slightly shaking her head.) AUNT ELLEN. You must overlook it, William. Good gracious ! I mean (She corrects herself hastily.) Mr. Ames! AMES. Oh, don't bother. AUNT ELLEN. (Left center) She belongs to a very different generation from the one you and I grew up with. AMES. (Right center. Set aback by her "you and I.") Ah — yes. Yes, indeed! AUNT ELLEN. (Going slowly toward right) You and I were taught a very different behavior toward our elders. AMES. (Gloomily) Yes, the — the previous — ah — generations had a very different training, though this one certainly has charm, too. I v onder how many of — uh — us, though, can remember just what we were like in our own youth. AUNT ELLEN. (Somewhat surprised) Why, I recall my own, perfectly. AMES. (Brightening) That's remarkab-ully (He changes the word to "remarkably" with a slight vocal struggle in the midst of it.) Pleasant. Your — ah — aunt, Miss Stuart does, too, and about pub- lic events she remembers wonderfully; we were reminiscing this morning; all about Hayes — and Wheeler and Samuel J. Tilden. Do you happen to remember that campaign ? AUNT ELLEN. (Looking at him over her shoul- der; she is touching some music sheets on the piano) Why, of course. AMES. (Rather dismayed) Well, she said she thought it was a terrible thing, Hayes — and — Wheeler's not getting elected. AUNT ELLEN. (With spirit) They were elected. Anybody that says they weren't is a — a despicable Democrat ! THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 109 AMES. (Hastily) Oh, I think they were myself. (Feebly hopeful.) 1 only wondered — I wasn't just able to recall what year that campaign was (He puts a rising, plaintive interrogative upon this.) AUNT ELLEN. It was in 1876, the same year as the Philadelphia Exposition. AMES. In 1876 — oh, yes ; it was — ah — a historical reference — I see. AUNT ELLEN. Historical? I went to that expo- sition myself. AMES. (He looks at his watch with another feeble murmur of plaintive laughter) I'm afraid I — I sup- pose I'd better be — yes — ah, I suppose I'd better (He goes awkwardly left and glances upward, think- ing of going to his room upstairs.) I'd better — ah — I suppose I'd better make — ah (At the door) Well, I AUNT ELLEN. (Inquiring rather shortly) Yes? AMES. (Wiping his forehead hurriedly) Well — thank you. Uh (Exit, dazedly, left.) (AUNT ELLEN sits at the piano and begins to play rather softly; she has a fine "touch" and plays with feeling. The light outdoors is the final rosi- ness of sunset; the firelight sends forth a broad rosy glow; but the rest of. the scene is darkened as she plays through an old-fashioned melody. She has played about a dozen bars when a figure enters up left in the sun-room. It is ISABEL, but she is not distinctly seen. The glow up, beyond the sun-room windows, is behind her, and it is not until she reaches the table, left center, that the firelight falls upon her. She has changed her dress for another suggesting a gayer "smart- ness" than that previously worn in the act. She still suggests the slight lameness. She is carry- ing a large and heavy old book. When she reaches the table, the firelight falls on her and we no THE INTIMATE STRANGERS should get a gleam of jewels. She opens the Bible upon the table, and lets it remain open.) AUNT ELLEN. (As ISABEL reaches the table) Is that you, Isabel? (She does not turn her head.) ISABEL. Yes, go on playing, dear. (She crosses to the fireplace, using her cane, and sits, gazing into the fire. There is a pause, the piano continuing, and then their talk goes on through the playing.) AUNT ELLEN. My old tunes are better than Flor- ence's, aren't they? I think music was best of all in my day. ISABEL. (Gently) No. It was best in my day. (Crosses right.) AUNT ELLEN. No ; I think it began to fall off by the time you came along. Music was best when My day was the best. ISABEL. (Sits in armchair at fireplace) Florence will say that some day. Music is best in each one's "day." What a pleasant thing that is ; that we all of us see, afterward, that our first youth was best ! AUNT ELLEN. It isn't pleasant to see anything afterward. ISABEL. Well, then, we can always look forward to — something — can't we? AUNT ELLEN. (Struck by this) Oh! (Her hands pause on the keys and she glances round for a moment at ISABEL.) Oh, I understand what you mean. He was in here a while ago trying to find out. You know what 7 mean. ISABEL. (Serenely) He didn't ask you, though. AUNT ELLEN. No. You can see he'd be nice un- der any circumstances. ISABEL. (With a little regret) "Nice?" Why, he's the bravest man I've ever seen. He's too plucky to withdraw — some remarks he made to me last night ! AUNT ELLEN. (Plays a bar or two*— then gravely) THE INTIMATE STRANGERS in I wonder if I oughtn't to stop calling you "Aunt" Isabel. ISABEL. Why ? I am your aunt. AUNT ELLEN. My half-aunt. ISABEL. Isn't that plenty? AUNT ELLEN. I've always liked calling you "Aunt Isabel" for one reason; nobody'd think I'm too old to be alive while I've still got an aunt. But it mightn't be consistent now. ISABEL. Why mightn't it? AUNT ELLEN. (Very seriously, not playing for the moment) Well, if anything should happen — I really shouldn't know how to begin calling Mr. Ames "Uncle William." ISABEL. Never mind, dear. It won't happen. AUNT ELLEN. (Stops playing and turns) I never could call Mr. Ames "Uncle." (She is very serious.) ISABEL. (Thoughtfully) You might call him "Nephew." (Rises.) AUNT ELLEN. Pooh ! (She plays softly.) ISABEL. Why not? Isn't Florence what all men want? Think of father; mother was only nineteen or so when he married her, and he was sixty-five. AUNT ELLEN. Poor grandfather's weakness in marrying a girl as your mother was oughtn't to be. (She plays again.) ISABEL. (Sits on sofa) Yes; but there it is. We're like Portia's caskets, we women, and the men come to choose without knowing what they'll find. Silver-and-gold, that's first youth, and it ought to have been written of that silver-and-gold casket : "Who chooses me shall choose what every man de- sires!" But if any man comes to choose me — well, a woman past twenty-eight is a thousand — I'll show him only lead ! AUNT ELLEN. I never heard before of a woman that teased a man to make him think she was older 112 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS than she was. And if it isn't to make him feel better when he finds out ISABEL. No, I've just told you why. AUNT ELLEN. Oh, you can give all the pretty reasons you want to, but I know. You thought you'd test him, and you've been punishing him for even daring to wonder how old you are. (ISABEL rises to protest, saying, "Oh, I ") And he's beginning to suspect. Think how pretty dancing was in my day. (She begins to play an old waltz.) ISABEL. They were pretty, the old waltzes. AUNT ELLEN. (Her memory of the music falter- ing) How did that go there ? (She tries to remem- ber by singing it.) La, la, la ISABEL. (Rising) No, it's this. (She hums it and beats time, moving a few waltz steps but keeping to a hint of her lameness.) Yes. That's it. (She hums and begins to waltz slowly in the same manner as before. ISABEL falls a little and a little more into the spirit of the waltz, never wholly abandoning the hint of lameness; the waltz-time is rather slow but quickens a little and almost imperceptibly ISABEL 'moves in and out of the firelight glow as she dances, and her scarf floats, following her. JOHNNIE WHITE enters, at the door, left, and stands looking on with- out surprise. ISABEL sees him, but only nods and continues. He wears a dinner coat.) JOHNNIE. Don't you want a partner? ISABEL. (Coming toward him) Johnnie White, do you know the old waltz ? JOHNNIE. Yes'm. (Without losing her step she lets her left hand fall lightly upon his shoulder; he catches her step and they dance. The waltz-time is now a little quicker, and AUNT ELLEN plays it with great pleasure. ISABEL dances with a greater aban- don until she has almost forgotten the hint of lame- ness. The sun-room is so dark that the opening of the door up left is unperceived. AMES, who has THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 113 changed to a dinner coat, enters there, and stands dumbfounded. FLORENCE enters just behind him and comes forward.) FLORENCE. (Exclaiming loudly — crosses to up right above fireplace) Well, for heaven's sake! What are you doin' now? ISABEL. (Startled as she sees AMES) Oh ! (She at once remembers her lameness. They stop dancing down right. ISABEL goes to center. JOHNNIE stays down right, below fireplace.) ISABEL. I — I'm afraid I forgot myself for the moment — I — you oughtn't to have tempted me, John- nie. It might be — dangerous AMES. (Striding down to her) Will you dance with me — Isabel? ISABEL. (A little breathless) What? AMES. Will you dance with me — Isabel? (ISA- BEL looks at him incredulously.) ISABEL. Dance with you, Mr. Ames? AMES. Yes. I remember the old waltzes. ISABEL. But perhaps — you don't realize how old they are — or how lame I am? AMES. I don't care. Won't you dance with me? ISABEL. Yes. (She puts her left arm on his shoul- der, as she did with JOHNNIE, and with a much more pronounced lameness than before, and in very slow time, they begin to waits, AUNT ELLEN playing softly. As they dance.) So you and I are in the fashion again. They say everybody dances all the time nowadays. AMES. (With profound earnestness) I don't know anything except when I saw you dancing I wanted to dance with you. I do. ISABEL. Do you ? No matter how slowly ? AMES. (Crossly) Yes, I do! ISABEL. But Florence would like to dance with you again. AMES. What nonsense ! ii4 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS ISABEL. (Suddenly radiant) Can't you play any faster than that, Ellen? Why don't you turn the lights up, Florence? (AuNT ELLEN plays suddenly with greater spirit. FLORENCE snaps on the lights and is revealed to be laughing inextinguishably.) FLORENCE. (Slapping JOHNNIE'S back with her other hand in her extreme jocosity) My ! But those ole- fashioned dances are funny! Don't they look crazy ! ISABEL. (Happily calling to her) Do we? (She discards her lameness entirely during the next few measures. The two dance like happy experts of eighteen. They look at each other like lovers. FLOR- ENCE ceases to laugh and becomes mystified. So does JOHNNIE. They stare, with their mouths open. Finally FLORENCE speaks with the emphasis of com- plete puzzlement.) FLORENCE. Well, just look at 'em lookin' at each other ! JOHNNIE. (Grinning, but speaking indignantly to her) Ain't you got any sense ? (AuNT ELLEN lifts her left hand from the keys in a passionate gesture, not ceasing to play with her right. As her back is obliquely to front and right her left hand is toward FLORENCE and JOHN- NIE.) FLORENCE. (Inquiring poignantly the meaning of the gesture) What? (AuNT ELLEN repeats the passionate gesture. FLORENCE is more mystified and also somewhat petulant.) Well, I (JOHNNIE seises her hand and drags her quickly off up right.) ISABEL. (Not stopping) I'm afraid we must stop. AMES. No! ISABEL. I mustn't wear you out. (Upon this, without looking at them, AUNT ELLEN abruptly stops THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 115 playing in the middle of a measure. She does not look at them at all, but goes quickly up and straight off left without turning. They are unconscious of her, and seem even unconscious that the piano has stopped or that they have ceased to dance. They have come to a halt directly up of the table left cen- ter and close by it, looking at each other.) AMES. (Speaking angrily the instant they and the music stop) I want to tell you just this: you've been mocking me every second since we first met in that God- forsaken railroad station. ISABEL. No ! AMES. (Fiercely) You have ! Every instant ! ISABEL. Never! Never once! Never! Never! AMES. You were at it half the day yesterday and as much of the night as you could stay awake and all day to-day ! But it won't do ! ISABEL. When did you decide I was mocking you? AMES. I thought so all day, but I knew it when I saw you dancing with that boy ! ISABEL. Do you mind my dancing with boys ? AMES. No! I'm not jealous. (His tone is as angry as before.) But it came over me! You've just mocked me ! ISABEL. Can't you imagine a woman's being a little nervous about one man's knowing how often the earth's gone round the sun since she was born? AMES. (With feeling) Ami the one man ? ISABEL. That's why women are afraid of every- body's knowing ; it might reach the one man. That's the reason a woman cares about her age; he might care! (She touches the open Bible on the table.) Look, Mr. Ames! I'll turn my back while you're looking. (She -walks away from him slorvly. AMES puts one hand on Bible, but keeps looking at ISABEL.^ ISABEL. (As he does this, her voice tremulous) On the left hand page you'll find all of papa's de- ii6 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS scendants by his first wife. On the right-hand page you'll see where the poor old darling married again — such a heathenish time — afterward AMES. That's what I thought. That's why I was looking for your Bible. ISABEL. Underneath is where you'll find me. (Her voice trembles a little more.) Have you found me? AMES. (With great feeling under his laughter) Yes, I have! (Closes Bible.) ISABEL. (Weakly) Oh, you didn't look ? (AMES crosses to ISABEL, holds out his arms as if to embrace her.) AMES. (Tenderly) Let's sit by the fire, shall we? (Crosses right. He touches the switch key and the only light is the firelight. She sits slowly on sofa, looking up at him, and he takes a chair near by. Then FLORENCE is heard laughing gaily off up left, and a moment later she is heard again.) FLORENCE. (Affecting reproach, off up left) All right for you, Johnnie White. I'll tell your mother on you ! ISABEL. (Softly) The fire's pleasant, even in April, isn't it? AMES. Yes. Do you think you could say to me good night, dear, without the good night? ISABEL. I think I could — if you're sure you don't mind anything you didn't see in the Bible, dear. AMES. You infant ! ISABEL. Oh! (AMES takes her hand, kisses it, and then lifts her hand to his cheek. ISABEL gives a little exclamation of delight.) CURTAIN THE INTIMATE STRANGERS 117 PROPERTY PLOT "THE INTIMATE STRANGERS" ACT ONE Lantern Stove — pail of coal Printed posters — giving notice of changes in schedule; A Navy Recruiting Poster; a "warning" concern- ing forest fires A penny-in^the-slot weighing machine "NO SMOKING" sign Clock (at rise set for seventeen minutes after six) Four or five wooden benches, with iron legs, the feet screwed to the floor A small lunch-basket (with egg and sandwich in it) A small Thermos bottle (with coffee in it) Several traveling bags A couple of guns in cases Trout-fishing outfit Telegraph instrument clicking off R. Matches Pocket Knife Cigarette case filled Lady's muff Lady's fur coat ACT Two Branched lustre old candleabrum Two single luster candle sticks 4 pictures of landscapes framed in simple gilt frame Phonograph; lively dance record Baby-grand piano Closed cabinet, all wood, no glass Lamp by the piano 118 THE INTIMATE STRANGERS Lamp on piano showing tan shade Books on table Flowers in jar on piano Flowers in glass vase on table Dust rag for Henry Electric bell off L. Telegram blanks Work bag Bag of tennis balls, racket and etc. Old mahogany case, in which is a folding daguerreotype ACT THREE Crocheting for Aunt Ellen Cabinet door — opened revealing shelves of old books; old ornaments of various kinds, small vases, silver porringers, etc. Two or three old pistols, a sword; rolled papers, old and tied with red ribbon; some old books Case of needles Bible Tweedles A delightful comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkingrton and Harry Leon Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 Interior. Costumes, modern. Time 2% hours. Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castlebnrys, falls in love with Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a village in Maine. The Tweedles name has been rooted in the community for 200 years, and the family look down on "summer people" with the vigor that only "summer boarder" communities know'. The Cnstleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and call on the Tweedles to argue against the alliance. Mr. Castle- bury explains the barrier of social caste, and the elder Tweedles takes it that these summer folk are terrified at the social emi- nence of the Tweedles. Tweedle generously agrees to cooperate with the Castleburys to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father tc reali«e that the Castleburys look upon THEM as inferiors. The old man threatens vengeance, but is checkmated when Julian un- earths family skeletons from the Tweedles closet. Also, Win- sora takes the matter into her own hands and outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant. The amateur acting rights are reserved for the present in all cities and towns where there are stock companies. Royalty will be quoted on application for those cities and towns where it may be presented by amateurs. Price, 75 cents. Little Women A charming1 play in 4 acts by Marion I)e Forest, dramatized from Louisa M. Alcott's famous story. 5 males, 7 females. 1 easy interior and 1 easy exterior. Costumes 1869. Play* 2% hours. "Little Women" is the most human and delightful story of a family of girls ever written. A classic of childhood'gj foibles and follies, it touches a responsive chord in the heart* of the younger generation. Yet it Is a tale that moves fathers and mothers quite as deeply, for the story may well be char- acterized as the finest delineation of family love and loyalty. Produced with tremendous success in the Playhouse, New York, where it enjoyed a long run, and was afterwards toured for several seasons. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. His Majesty Bunker Bean Farcical comedy in 4 acts. By Lee Wilson Dodd, from the novel by Harry Leon Wilson. 12 males, 6 females. 4 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. Those who have laughed immoderately at the story will be amused by the play, which tells of a cowed and credulous youth who became kingly when he was tricked into believing himself a reincarnation of Napol- eon. Ran at Astor Theatre, New York, after 25 weeks in Chica- go. A delightful and wholesome farce comedy. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request Clarence Comedy in 4 acts by Booth Tarkington. 5 males, 5 females. 2 Interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. One of the "five million", Clarence served where he was sent — though it was no further than Texas. As an entomologist he found — on this side of the ocean — no field for his specialty, so they set him to driving mules. Now, reduced to civil life and seeking- a job, he finds a posi- tion in the home of one Wheeler, a wealthy man with a family. And because he'd "been in the army" he becomes guide, philos- opher and friend to the members of that distracted family group. Clarence's position is an anomolons one. He mends the plumbing, tunes the piano, types— off stage — and plays the saxo- phone. And around him revolves such a group of characters as only Booth Tarkington could offer. It is a real American comedy, at which the audience ripples with appreciative and delighted laughter. Those marvelous young people, Cora and Bobby, are portrait sketches warranted to appeal to everyone. Royalty, $35.00. Price, 75 cents. The Charm School Comedy in 5 acts by Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6 males, 10 females. (May be played by 5 males and 8 female*). (Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles). 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. A young automobile salesman just out of his 'teens Inherits a girl's school and insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas, chief of which is that the dominant feature in the education of the young girl of today should be CHARM. In the end the young man gives up the school and promises to wait until the youngest of his pupils reaches a marriagable age. "The Charm School" has the freshness of youth, the inspir- ation of a novel idea, the charm of originality, and wholesome, amusing entertainment. We strongly recommend It for high school production. First produced in New York, then toured the country. Two Companies now playing It in England. Royalty, $25.00. Price, 75 cents. A Full House Farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females. 1 interior. Modern costumes. Plays 2'/2 hours. This newest and funniest farce was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known story writer, and is backed up by the prestige ot an impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attractive form. A cleverer farce has not been seen for many a long day. "A Fall House" is a house full of laughs. Royalty, 925. Price, 75 cents. SAMILEL-EKICNCII, 25 West 45th Street, New York City New and .Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request Daddy Long-Legs A charming comedy in 4 acts, by Jean Webster. 6 9 females, and 6 orphans, but by easy doubling: of some char- acters, may be played by 4 males, 4 females and 3 orphans* The orphans appear only in the first act and may be played by small girls. 4 easy interiors. Costumes modern. Flays 2V4 hours. The New Tork Times wrote the following: "If you will take your pencil and write down, one below the other, the words delightful, charming', sweet, beautiful and entertaining, and then draw a line and add them up, the answer will be 'Daddy Long-Legs'. To that result you might even add brilliant, pathetic and humorous, but the answer even then worcld be just what it was before — the play which Miss Jean Webster has made from her book, 'Daddy Long-Legs'. To at- tempt to describe the simplicity and beauty of 'Daddy Long- Less* would be like attempting to describe the first breath of Spring after an exceedingly tiresome and hard Winter." Enjoyed a two-years' run in New York and was then tonroa for over three years. Boyalty, $85.00. Price, 75 cents. To the Ladles A hilarious comedy in 8 acts, by George 8. Kaufman and Hare Connelly. 11 males, S females. 3 interiors. Costume*, modem. Plays 2% hours. The authors of "Duley" have divulged a secret known to •very woman — and to some men, though the men don't admit it. The central figures are young Leonard Beebe and his wife EUtc, a little girl from Mobile. Leonard is the average young American clerk, the kind who read all the "Success" stories la the magazines and believe them. Blsie has determined to mako him something more. She has her hands full — even has to! make an after dinner speech for him — but she does it and the play shows how. Helen Hayes played Blsie and Otto Kruger Impersonated Leonard in New Tork, where it ran a whole season. Here's a clean and wholesome play, dellciously funny and altogether •> diverting evening's entertainment;. Boyalty, $25.00. Price, 7ft cents. Three Live Ghosts Comedy in S acts by Frederick Isham and Max Marcin. 6 males, 4 females (2 policemen). 1 Interior throughout. Cos- tumes, modern. Plays 2% hours. "Three Live Ghosts" is brim fall of fun and humor and l» sure to keep audiences in gales ef laughter. The New York critics described it as the most ingenious and amusing comedy of the season, genuinely funny. It played a full season in' Now York, then toured the big cities. A lively comedy of merit. Boyalty, $26.00. Price, 75 cents. SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Bequest FRENCH'S Standard Library Edition Includes Plays by Clyde Fitch William Gillette Augustus Thomas George Broadhurst Edward E. Kidder Percy MacKaye Sir Arthur Con an Doyle Louis N. Parker R. C. Carton Alfred Sutro Richard Harding Davis Sir Arthur W. Pinero Anthony Hope Oscar Wilde Haddon Chambers Jerome K. Jerome Cosmo Gordon Lennox H. V. Esmond Mark Swan Grace L. Furniss Marguerite Merringtoa Hermann Sudermaxm Rida Johnson Young Arthur Law Rachel Crothers Martha Morton H. A. Du Souchet W. W. Jacobs Madeleine Lucette Ryley Booth Tarkington J. Hartley Manners James Forbes James Montgomery Wm. C. de Mille Roi Cooper Megrvc Edward E. Rose Israel Zangwill Henry Bernstein Harold Brighouse Channing Pollock Harry Durant Winchell Smith Margaret Mayo Edward Peple A. E. W. Mason Charles Klein Henry Arthur Jon«s A. E.Thomas Fred. Ballard Cyril Harcourt Carlisle Moore Ernest Denny Laurence Housman Harry James Smith Edgar Selwyn Augustin McHugh Robert Housum Charles Kenyon C. M. S. McLellen French's International Copyrighted Edition contain* plays, comedies and farces of international reputation; also recent professional successes by famous Ameri- can and English Authors. Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue describing thousands of plays. SAMUEL FRENCH Oldest Play Publisher in the World 25 West 45th Street NEW YORK CITY APR 1 1 1990 PS 2972 158 1921 C.I ROBA mm®